


Topaz and Cornflower

by SaintNynniaw



Series: Topaz And Cornflower [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Injury Recovery, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, M/M, Mpreg, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Omega Jaskier | Dandelion, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Recovery, past non consensual body modification
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:53:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 51,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27212998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintNynniaw/pseuds/SaintNynniaw
Summary: Killing the drowner was ordinary. Going to the nearest town? Ordinary. Talking with the alderman? Ordinary.Not so ordinary was being paid in too few orens... and one heavily abused omega.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Topaz And Cornflower [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2091087
Comments: 1344
Kudos: 1653





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: injury, horrible living conditions

It was a very gray town, and only becoming grayer from the falling snow. Flakes turned brown on dirty rooftops and were churned into slush from the passage of cart-wheels and horse-hooves; the only color came from the yellow glow of candlelight through shops’ grimy windows.

Spring, it seemed, would be coming late this year.

It wasn’t a large town in its own right. Its own citizens were mostly farmers, but as Geralt scanned the crowds that parted around him, it was easy enough to tell that these were not all simple folk. There were too many rich fabrics, too many furs. The cold, heavy air smelled like too many perfumes, and when he listened, he could hear at least four different accents in the speech of those around him.

This wasn’t a bad thing, Geralt knew. Slightly overwhelming—yes. But he could handle that. A trading town that experienced traffic from far and wide was surely a good place to find people willing to pay for his services.

Geralt slid easily from Roach’s saddle, ensuring that the dead drowner fixed behind it didn’t slide off with the motion. Loosely holding Roach’s reins, he walked over to the nearest roadside stall. The woman behind it—a beta, Geralt observed—looked extremely put off by this.

“Pardon,” Geralt said. He really did try not to sound too gruff, but judging by the paling of the woman’s face, he didn’t succeed. He gave up. “Where’s the alderman’s house?”

The beta’s eyes flicked to the limp drowner hanging off of Roach’s back, and then skated to Geralt’s yellow, slit-pupiled eyes and the drowner guts in his hair. “Down the street,” she managed. “Left at the corner tavern.”

“Thank you.” Geralt clicked his tongue, and Roach followed as he turned back out into the street.

***

The alderman was happier to see a witcher than almost anyone else Geralt had ever met. He was a beta, like the woman in the market, but seemed entirely uncowed by Geralt’s presence. His bearing seemed to be mostly relief over the dead drowner—apparently, the creature had already consumed three farmers’ daughters, and people had been starting to complain—but it was better than both outright distrust and polite tolerance.

Geralt didn’t like him.

“Of course,” the alderman bubbled, “I’ll pay you for your service.” He bustled about until he found a bell; when he rung it, the door to the room swung open promptly. A servant stepped in, stiff as starch.

They immediately blanched at Geralt’s polite nod.

The alderman hadn’t stopped smiling. “My dear, will you tell Bartek I’m sending someone his way?”

The servant nodded and hurried off.

Geralt frowned. “Who is Bartek?”

The alderman waved a hand. “An old friend. I’m calling in a favor for you, that’s all. In gratitude. Now! As wonderfully talented as Bartek is, I’m sure the favor won’t cover the service you’ve done for the town. Here.” He held out a pouch of orens, and Geralt accepted it. “I think you’ll find that’s in order.”

By the weight, it was less than Geralt would have charged. “Not quite.”

The alderman just laughed. “Come back tomorrow,” he said, “and you can tell me if you still feel that way.”

The servant reappeared in the doorway and bowed. “Sir.”

“Ah!” The alderman beamed. “Lovely. Geralt, it was wonderful to have met you.”

It didn’t feel like it would be honest to say the same, so Geralt did not reply.

The servant led Geralt outside at a brisk pace, and though far from a surprise, the chill air was an assault all over again. They walked purposefully to a door adjacent to the alderman’s house, close enough that it made Geralt wonder what business the alderman was dealing with this friend of his. Clearly, they were more affiliated than the alderman had let on.

“Bartek will assist you from here,” the servant said, bowing again as the door opened. “Have a pleasant evening.”

Miffed, Geralt turned toward the open door.

And immediately took a step back.

The place smelled warm, like spring grass and vanilla and flowers.

And over it all ran the dark, decaying scent of persistent fear.

A deep voice startled him from his shock, as well as a harsh scent like wet gravel.

An alpha, like himself but half a head shorter and rather more dense-looking, stood in the doorway. He wore a rich mustard scarf over similarly expensive-looking clothes, and his eyes flicked once up and down Geralt’s person before he spoke. “So I suppose you’re Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt’s hand twitched. The tension in his body was already beginning to rise, set wholly on edge; the delicate scent of omega was still wafting from beyond the door.

Scared omega.

“What is this?” he demanded.

Bartek sighed. “My old friend the alderman is apparently out of money again, so he’s called in a favor. Which is, as it happens, very good fortune for you, and rather rotten fortune for me.”

“What,” Geralt repeated, “is this?”

“The rest of your payment,” Bartek replied. “Come in, I suppose.”

As Geralt warily stepped into the dimly-lit space, the smell only grew stronger, and Bartek kept talking.

“I recently acquired a very fine specimen,” he said, dragging thick fingers through his thinning hair. “Absolutely beautiful. A little wild at first, sure, but I’m an expert, aren’t I?” He grumbled, shaking his head. “If I’d have had a few more weeks, it’d be the best sale I ever made. Mark me.”

Geralt was frowning, his eyes narrowed. “Sale?”

Bartek glared at Geralt, not even trying to hide it. “Not that it matters anymore. I hope you can at least appreciate the work I’ve already done.” He sighed. “Come on, then.”

The hall only grew darker as Geralt followed the man deeper into the building, until the smell was close to nauseating. Finally, Bartek stopped and turned; the door was thick wood, studded with iron rivets. He fumbled with the keyring at his belt for a few moments, and then, still grumbling, turned the key in the lock with a rusty squeal.

When the door opened, the scent of omega and misery rolled out like a wave.

Hot chills flickered over Geralt’s skin, as well as budding loathing for the man who, at that moment, had slouched into the darkness beyond the door. Geralt’s keen vision adjusted quickly, and his stomach turned as more of the room came to light.

A single bucket.

A mat of straw.

No windows.

And, huddled in the corner, a single, solitary figure.

Bartek crossed to the figure, which cringed away at his approach. With a clanking of chains, the man lifted the figure to their knees by the wrists, ignoring the pained whimper that elicited, and went about unlocking the cuffs which chained them to a bracket on the wall.

The more Geralt looked, the worse it was.

The figure appeared to be male, and skinny to the point of fainting; Geralt saw where his wrist bones stuck out, rubbed raw from the manacles. His chestnut hair lay lank and wavy around his face, and clasped over that face…

“Bartek,” Geralt demanded, “why is he muzzled?”

Bartek finished unlocking the chains and let them fall with a crash. “Oh. Yes. I told you he was a bit wild at the beginning, didn’t I? Little bitch damn near took out my throat.” He hauled the figure to his feet, not waiting when the omega’s knees gave out. The omega made a faint, pained whimper.

Even as Geralt’s heart clenched, Bartek ignored it.

“Right,” Bartek said. “Here you are.” He gave the omega a push in Geralt’s direction, leaving the Witcher to catch him. The young man’s skin was clammy and feverish. “Like I said, I haven’t finished training him, so it’ll be on you to finish that up.” He began to check points off on his fingers. “Don’t take the muzzle off unless you’re feeding him, and then put it right back on. Don’t feed him too often, and only when he behaves. Best to give him as little physical contact as possible, except in the ways he’s supposed to be touched.” He sighed. “He’s mostly obedient. Talks a bit much, when he can, but I’m sure you can put a stop to that.”

Geralt himself was speechless.

“Oh!” Bartek snapped his fingers. “Nearly forgot. His name is Dandelion.”

At that, the omega’s head twitched up, and the smell of fear in the room grew even deeper.

Bartek chuckled, taking the omega’s chin and forcing his face up. Dandelion whimpered again, very quietly. “You make sure you’re good for Geralt, now. Don’t spoil my reputation.”

“Hands off,” Geralt growled.

Bartek raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Possessive already?” He leaned down to be eye-level with Dandelion. “He’s a witcher, Dandelion. You know about witchers, don’t you?”

Dandelion managed a terrified nod.

“Well,” Bartek murmured. “I don’t want to know what he’ll do to you if you misbehave. Do you?”

“Enough,” Geralt snapped. “Time to go.”

“Of course,” Bartek said, straightening. “Here; the key to his muzzle.” Geralt accepted it, slipped it into his pocket, and, supporting the struggling omega, strode out of the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's chapter 1! I have a buffer of chapters, so hopefully I can get on a posting schedule; for now, maybe Mondays and Wednesdays? We shall see.  
> Anyway, this is my first fanfiction, and I'll be real with you, everything I have so far was written at four in the morning... so please leave kudos/comments if you want to make my day :)))


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt gets Dandelion to an inn. Dandelion is not okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: evidence of past rape/non-con, blood, injury

The omega was not well.

That was clear as Geralt stepped into the waning sunlight with the young man all but boneless in his grip. The omega’s dark-haired head sagged forward, beads of sweat rolling down his temples. His wrists were raw and his fingertips were bloody, and judging by the strength of the blood-scent—along with, Geralt thought, vomit, piss, and… oh, Gods, he didn’t like how much of Bartek’s scent, sticky and hot, he could smell on the omega, either—there were worse injuries he couldn’t see.

“Shit,” Geralt muttered.

Dandelion felt tiny in the saddle in front of Geralt as he slowly directed Roach through the city. When he found an inn that looked suitable and most likely didn’t double as a brothel, he slipped out of the saddle, carefully holding Dandelion against his chest. Somewhere along the ride, the omega seemed to have fainted.

The young woman who took Roach’s reins to bring her to the stable looked alarmed at the sight of Geralt, still filthy and travel-worn, supporting an unconscious, muzzled omega.

To Geralt’s surprise, though, she didn’t raise a single alarm. She only swallowed her apparent nerves and led Roach away like she’d been in this situation before.

By the gods. If this was _normal_ …

Geralt shook his head.

Priorities.

He ended up carrying Dandelion in one arm and his bags in the other when he walked into the inn. The metal of Dandelion’s muzzle was cold on Geralt’s neck, and the young man weighed far too little.

“Room, please,” Geralt grunted at the innkeeper, who reacted much the same way as the girl at the stables. “And send up a bath and some food.”

After a bit of wrangling to reach his coin pouch with no free hands, Geralt trudged upstairs.

***

Dandelion was still out. His breaths, Geralt observed with some concern, were shallow, and slower than he thought they should be for a human.

He pressed his lips together.

He needed to know the extent of the young man’s injuries. Maybe it would be best to spare him the discomfort and get that done quickly, hopefully treating him before he woke. Guilt rippled down Geralt’s spine; it was beyond obvious that the omega’s privacy had already been invaded far, far too many times.

But it wasn’t like Geralt could just _leave_ him like this. So… so he’d take it one step at a time. As gently as he could, and as un-invasively as possible.

The first step was the appalling apparatus still affixed to the omega’s face. Geralt turned his head gently, examining it. It was crafted of metal and leather, and its edges dug into the omega’s skin. A solid piece of metal pressed across the bridge of his nose before bending downward to follow his jaw; under his jaw, it bent upward, preventing his mouth from opening even enough to unclench his teeth. A leather strap ran from the bridge of the nose up over his forehead and to the back, where it met the straps that hugged the back of his neck.

Geralt fished the key out of his pocket, grateful that his hands didn’t shake. He fitted it into the lock and turned, and a sharp _click_ informed him that he’d succeeded.

He moved the straps away first, gently letting Dandelion’s head rest on the floor. Then, working gingerly, he began to lift the device away from Dandelion’s face.

Unsurprisingly, it was reluctant to part with the skin. Bartek must have ratcheted the straps as far as they possibly could have gone, because as the muzzle came away, it left pale, bloodless lines on the omega’s face that quickly began to flush red and angry. A thin trickle of blood began to flow sluggishly from a line of broken skin on Dandelion’s jaw.

Geralt closed his eyes and drew a deep, long breath. In terms of injury, it wasn’t too bad. He’d seen worse, frequently. In terms of cruelty, though…

He shook his head, trying to make himself focus.

There was no point in trying to salvage Dandelion’s clothes; they were scarcely more than stained rags. So instead of trying to sit Dandelion up and wrangle them off in one piece, he carefully nicked the hem, ran a tear up the middle of the shirt, and simply pulled it away.

Automatically, he found himself cataloging the damage.

Knot on the collarbone, where a break healed improperly.

Bruises around the collar and throat.

An angry red welt over the shoulder, hinting at lashes on the omega’s back.

And more bruises, closer to his hips and belly. Leading lower.

Geralt sat back on his heels and pressed his thumbs into his eyes.

A knock at the door interrupted his quiet crisis, and, exhaling sharply, he stood, gathered himself for a moment, and answered it.

He hung back by the unconscious Dandelion as a couple of servants set up the bath, unwilling to leave the young man defenseless even without the presence of danger. When the bath was full and the servants had taken their leave, Geralt slumped.

He knelt by Dandelion’s side. The omega had been out for a worrying amount of time. He was breathing—far too shallowly, still—but he needed… hell. He needed a lot of things.

But Geralt could start with a bath.

Steeling himself, he slipped Dandelion’s pants off his hips.

A split-second glance was all it took to get an estimate of the young man’s injuries, and then Geralt was deliberately looking away across the room, his stomach in his throat.

The omega’s thighs were a pattern of bruises in so many stages of development that the addition of new ones had to happen almost daily. Dried fluids, all tinged with blood, had run down the omega’s legs, and his knees were swollen and black and blue.

Geralt—Geralt who had seen cascades of kikimora organs, fatal wounds, and missing limbs—had to close his eyes and take another deep breath.

As gently as he possibly could, he lifted Dandelion in his arms and brought him to the bath. He had been right about the lashes on the omega’s back; some of the welts were scabbed over, some were simply profound bruises, and some had broken open at his touch and were bleeding over his fingers. He gritted his teeth. He would treat every wound as soon as Dandelion was clean. Maybe— _maybe—_ he could even stop some of them from scarring.

Physically, anyway.

Part of Geralt had expected the warm water (and resulting sting to his injuries) to send the omega splashing into wakefulness, but he was wrong.

“Right, then,” he muttered. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahaha did I say I might update next on Wednesday? I liiiieeeeed! I probably will still update on Wednesday, but the real tea is that over the weekend I fell down the stairs like a champ and sprained my ankle, so I haven't really left my apartment much. Turns out that gives me a lot of time on my hands.
> 
> Anyway! Remember that this is my first fic, and as always, kudos and comments make me really happy <3 :))


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dandelion wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: references to past abuse

Dandelion woke on something soft, under something softer.

For a moment or two, he kept his eyes closed. After all, it was possible he wasn’t awake yet; that had happened before, his mind offering him a respite that he’d be a fool not to take. But the longer he lay there, the more trickled into his awareness.

His body felt stiff and chilled despite the softness around him, but it was better than usual. There was a fire crackling nearby; he could feel its warmth. And he could smell a confusing mess of different things: wood smoke. Soap. Leather and horse. Food, something that made his stomach clench painfully.

And…

His muscles locked.

_Alpha_.

Suddenly, the memories were rushing back. Bartek, dragging him to his feet. Bartek, casually tossing him forward. Him landing hard against something solid and angry.

Something with white hair and golden eyes with slits for pupils.

Dandelion’s eyes flew open as he sucked in a sharp breath.

Though the room was small, he was immediately overwhelmed, sharp pain lancing through his head and forcing his eyes closed again. After a moment of steadying his breathing, he tried again, peeking through his eyelashes. Firelight danced across a plank-wood floor, and outside the window, snow drifted down, setting shadows fluttering against the walls. An empty wooden tub sat in the corner, and a table on the other side of the room, laden with food that made his mouth water so much that it hurt.

And at that table…

_The alpha_.

The alpha—the _witcher_ —was staring at him, sword and whetstone in hand.

Dandelion couldn’t remember how to breathe.

“You’re awake,” the alpha said. He had a deep voice, gruff but not harsh.

Dandelion’s frozen body wouldn’t even permit him to blink, and details, sharpened with terror, were pouring into his awareness. The witcher was wearing a black tunic and leather riding pants. He was barefoot. His hair was loose and damp around his shoulders, leaving darker circles of water on his tunic. And his eyes… Dandelion felt his chest collapse even smaller. Those yellow eyes were piercing, like those of a wolf. Predator’s eyes.

Dandelion would have to be truly stupid to believe he wasn’t prey.

The witcher seemed to recognize Dandelion’s fear—Dandelion knew that he had to be reeking of it—for he slowly set his sword down and held up his empty hands as if Dandelion were a frightened animal. Which perhaps wasn’t too far from the truth. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

_Like fuck, you aren’t_. Dandelion couldn’t tell if his body was going to let him inhale anytime soon, but he knew that his heart was flying against his ribcage.

The witcher gestured at the table, and the food on it. “Would you like to eat?”

Automatically, Dandelion reached up to touch his muzzle.

His eyes flew even wider.

He pressed his palms to his cheeks, rubbing over his nose and chin and mouth. Where was his muzzle? He would have smiled, but uncertainty was never good. He’d learned that lesson very, very well.

As he traced his fingers over his jaw, no grit rolled on his skin, and he sat up a little. He was… clean? There was no stickiness as he moved, no itchiness of dirt and blood. He held his arms out, noticing that his wrists and each of his raw fingertips had been carefully wrapped in a bandage. Even his clothes were clean.

Wait.

These weren’t his clothes.

He was wearing a black shirt and soft linen pants, both of which were perfectly enormous over his thin frame. They smelled like the witcher.

There was a hellish number of questions in Dandelion’s head, and he knew—he _knew_ —that he shouldn’t ask any of them. Shouldn’t open his mouth at all, actually. If he talked too much around Bartek, Bartek would beat him in all the places he knew hurt the worst, leaving Dandelion curled over, shielding his belly as best he could. And this wasn’t even Bartek—this was a w _itcher_.

If Dandelion opened his mouth…

He should _not_ open his mouth.

But he did.

His voice came out cracked and weak. “Where am I?” As soon as he spoke, he found himself recoiling against the wall, covers pulled up as if they could guard him.

To his shock, the witcher didn’t move. “An inn,” he said. “On the outskirts of the city. You’re safe.”

Dandelion opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He frowned.

“Listen,” the witcher said. “Come over and eat, and we can talk. Alright?”

_Come over and eat_. A direct order. Out of conditioned habit, Dandelion found his body moving to slide out of the bed.

Trusting his legs was a mistake.

He let out a little involuntary cry as his battered knees gave out from under him, and then a terrified chirp as the witcher, there in a flash, caught him with two strong hands around his biceps. “Are you alright?” the witcher demanded. Then he blinked. “That was a stupid question. Never mind.” He helped an unsteady Dandelion to his feet. “Just come eat. I don’t want you fainting again.”

The witcher half-led, half-supported Dandelion to the table and helped him to a seat in front of a bowl of stew and black bread. The smell was intoxicating, and Dandelion’s stomach clenched even as he shivered.

“Careful when you eat,” the witcher said. “You might be sick.”

_Right_. Sick was bad. Bartek had hated it when Dandelion was sick; once, Dandelion hadn’t been able to hold it back after Bartek gave him a meal, and he’d nearly thrown up on Bartek’s foot. The man had lashed him black and blue with the buckled end of his belt. Throwing up into the muzzle, though, was… worse. That was worse. He touched his face again, half-entranced when his bandaged fingers didn’t encounter cold metal and unyielding leather.

The spoon trembled a little in Dandelion’s hand as he took it up and brought a mouthful of stew to his lips. His jaw cracked painfully when he opened his mouth, but then the warmth of the food was spreading through him, better than anything he’d tasted in _months_ , and he was going back for another bite, and another.

“Hmm,” the witcher said.

Dandelion froze. He’d forgotten any kind of manners, hadn’t even waited for the witcher to tell him it was alright to keep eating. The food turned to stone in the pit of his stomach.

But the witcher again didn’t move. He almost seemed to be deliberately holding himself still, refraining from sudden movement. And, as Dandelion watched him for a few silent heartbeats, he thought that perhaps the alpha was intentionally keeping his distance.

That was very, very strange.

The witcher shifted slightly and Dandelion flinched, but the alpha only propped an arm on the table. “Maybe take it a little slower,” he said, nodding at Dandelion’s bowl. He cleared his throat, and Dandelion thought it sounded… uncomfortable?

That didn’t make much sense, either.

Dandelion was starting to get painfully uncertain. Clearly, he was in a place where he didn’t fully know the rules. And even if that hadn’t hurt him yet…

Well. Knowing how the world worked was the best way to ease its horrors. But here, in this strange, comfortable room with this strange, distant alpha, he had no idea what he was supposed to do.

And that was fucking terrifying.

“Are…” The witcher still looked distinctly uncertain. “Are you missing teeth?”

Immediately, Dandelion pressed his lips together. _Nope. Nope, nope, nope._

“It’s okay,” the other man prompted. “I already said I wouldn’t hurt you.”

Answering would be best. Say ‘yes,’ and be done.

But there were reasons that Bartek had kept him muzzled, and one of those reasons was that, in the words of many who had had him before, he couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut.

“Please,” he said quietly, still making eye contact with his unfinished soup, “don’t lie to me.”

The alpha’s eyes widened in surprise, and Dandelion cringed back. _Fuck. I’ve done it now_.

But for the third time, the witcher did not move. He didn’t so much as raise a threatening hand; he just looked at the edge of the table and said “hmm.”

Tentatively, casting nervous glances at the witcher all the while, Dandelion ate another bite of stew.

“You’re missing your fingertips, too.”

At that, the spoon slipped from Dandelion’s hand and plopped fully into the soup with a little splash.

Before Dandelion could start to panic, the witcher had wordlessly leaned over and plucked the utensil out. He wiped it on a napkin and handed it, handle-first, back to Dandelion.

“I—you—ah—” Dandelion stammered. He’d just been incredibly foolish; wasn’t this alpha going to do _anything_ about that?”

The witcher took a deep breath. “I… won’t press. But… can you tell me what’s happened to you?”

Dandelion nearly started stammering again, but he forced his mouth shut. Finally, he drew a long breath of his own. “I’m terribly sorry,” he managed eventually, trying hard to keep his words right. That question really didn’t make any sense, but maybe he’d know how to answer it if he knew what the witcher actually _wanted_. Because…

Well, what he wanted most certainly wasn’t a chat about Dandelion’s past.

“What, um…” Dandelion said. “What can I do? For you?”

The witcher frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“What do you want?” Dandelion repeated. “I… I mean…” He swallowed. “There must be something you want. I… I’m sorry, I’m not sure what to do.”

Understanding seemed to dawn over Geralt’s face. “Oh,” he said. Then, as if marveling at his own capacity to miss something obvious, he repeated it. “No. No, Dandelion, I don’t want anything from you. Not in the way you probably… hmm. Not how you expect, I don’t think.”

Dandelion bit his lip. It was typical that this alpha would believe Dandelion couldn’t expect his preferences. Every single alpha on the planet thought that they were unusual in bed. Of course, this one _was_ a witcher… and this _had_ been the strangest time Dandelion had ever spent with a new owner. So hell, maybe it _would_ be a surprise.

That sounded… bad.

Dandelion’s heart crept into his throat.

“Wait,” the witcher said hurriedly. “Not whatever you’re thinking, either.” He slowed down, rubbing a thumb over the edge of the table. “You were given to me as payment,” he said. “I didn’t buy you, and I didn’t ask for you. I do not have any desire to make you continue whatever life you were living before this.” His face was unreadable. “It was clearly… unpleasant.” He gestured to himself. “I’m Geralt, by the way. I couldn’t tell if you knew. You were… you were very out of it. When we met.”

Dandelion got the feeling that Geralt may have just spoken his longest string of words in months. The alpha was clearly not the talkative type.

Dandelion ran a hand absently over his belly. “If you don’t want me,” he said—and it was impossible for him to filter all the skepticism from his tone, no matter how he tried—“then what…” He shook his head and gestured at the food and the bath. This alpha had clearly bathed him, and now was making sure he ate. There was no such thing as a free kindness. “ _Why_?”

The witcher sighed. “Listen,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t tell before. Under all the… _other_ smells.”

Dandelion felt every muscle in his body go rigid.

_No…_

“But. Hmm.” Geralt looked down. “It wouldn’t be right to turn you out into the streets.” He wasn’t fidgeting—that inhuman stillness again—but Dandelion got the feeling that he would have been if he weren’t a witcher. “For your own sake, of course. I mean, you’re injured, and you still have a bit of a fever. But also…”

_Shit. Fuck. No, he couldn’t know._

The witcher looked up. His eyes—they weren’t yellow, Dandelion decided, but golden—were fathomless. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading another chapter of Taupe and Cauliflower, my dudes! Next update will be... uh... later this week? Sounds right.  
> As always, kudos and comments make me super duper happy!!! Love y'all, peace out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: evidence of past abuse, reference to past lost baby

It was very obvious that the omega was looking for a way to escape.

At Geralt’s observation, he’d gone perfectly still—to the point where, if he hadn’t been able to hear the faint, trembling exhalation, Geralt would have though he’d been holding his breath. His cornflower-blue eyes skated to the door before flicking back to Geralt.

“H—how—” His hands had begun to shake slightly. “How can you tell? It’s only been six weeks.”

Geralt folded his hands on the table, where Dandelion could see them. He was deliberately keeping every motion slow and as predictable as he could. “Witcher senses,” he said. He frowned at the omega, off of whom the scent of terror was rolling like heavy smoke. “What scared you?”

He got the distinct feeling that Dandelion was slipping into his own head. “Please don’t,” he said tremulously. “It’s my baby, please don’t…”

“Dandelion,” Geralt said seriously. He resisted the urge to lean closer, to comfort with touch. Those alpha instincts would not be welcome here. “Don’t do what?”

The omega’s eyes had begun to shine with tears. “Don’t take him. Please, Geralt, I’ll do anything. Anything you want, I swear, just please…”

“Dandelion,” Geralt said again, but this time, he felt his own voice waver. “I’m not going to take your baby.” He hesitated. “Has… has someone done that?”

The omega shuddered for a moment, looking about to dissolve.

Just as Geralt thought he might gather himself, he buried his face in his hands and fell apart.

***

Dandelion cried until Geralt started worrying about dehydration. Ultimately unable to resist reaching out, Geralt tentatively put a hand on Dandelion’s shoulder; after flinching violently, the omega reluctantly leaned into the minimal touch. Geralt remembered what Bartek had said about touching Dandelion _only in the ways he was meant to be touched_ , and had to quell a roll of fury—after however long he’d spent in Bartek’s house, Dandelion had to be painfully starved for sympathetic contact. Omegas already needed a lot of touch to stay emotionally healthy. Pregnant ones even more so.

Mindful of bruises and also boundaries, Geralt gently rubbed a circle between Dandelion’s shoulder blades. He could feel the ripple of half-healed scars under the fabric of the borrowed tunic, and kept his touch light; Dandelion’s body heat—still a bit too warm—filled his palm.

By the time Dandelion couldn’t cry any more, he’d slumped weakly in his chair, face soaked with tears.

“Dandelion?” Geralt ventured after the omega had been quiet for a few minutes.

Dandelion nodded weakly.

It felt important to say, so Geralt repeated it: “I’m not going to hurt you, alright?” he said. “And I’m not going to hurt your baby. I promise.”

Dandelion’s voice was hoarse and quiet. “I want to believe you.”

“It’s okay even if you don’t,” Geralt replied softly. “I can earn your trust, or you can withhold it forever, and that’s okay.” He was still gently rubbing Dandelion’s back. “I want you to feel safe. That’s all.”

Another tear trailed down Dandelion’s face.

Geralt kept his voice as gentle as he could. “Do you think you can eat any more?”

Dandelion shook his head.

“Okay,” Geralt said. “Do you want to go to bed?”

That made the omega look up. His eyes were glassy. “Not with you.”

It was actually a relief to Geralt that Dandelion spoke so bluntly, even if it was more likely due to exhaustion than trust. “That’s fine. I’ll sleep just as well on the floor.”

Dandelion blinked. “ _You’d_ sleep on the floor?”

“Of course,” Geralt said. “I’m not exactly going to make _you_ do that.”

The omega looked, through his weariness, completely baffled.

“Come on,” Geralt said with a sigh. “Let’s get you to bed.”

***

Contrary to what he’d told Dandelion, Geralt didn’t sleep, on the floor or otherwise. Once Dandelion was still and quiet, curled around himself protectively beneath every blanket Geralt had been able to find, Geralt spent almost an hour just pacing back and forth in front of the door.

There were several things he knew.

For starters, his plans for this town would have to change. He’d intended to stay for a few nights at most before taking more jobs that would lead him into the woods, but clearly, that wouldn’t do—he couldn’t leave Dandelion. Not in this place where the alderman himself used slaves like currency, and the people didn’t seem to bat an eye. And Bartek… Bartek had obviously been at this business for a while. Dandelion was most certainly not the only poor omega he’d gotten his hands on, and where there was one slave trader, there were many. This was not a safe place for Dandelion to be unprotected.

He looked across the dark room, where his sharp eyes could still easily discern the fluff of brown hair peeking out from beneath the mountain of blankets. He remembered the feeling of that brilliant blue gaze pressing into his own before flitting away like a bird, never staying still.

_What have you been through?_

For some things, Geralt could guess. The wounds on his back, layered over older scars, attested to at least a few years of abuse—maybe more. And the pregnancy… Geralt bit his lip. He wondered who the other father was. Bartek? Someone else? And the baby that Dandelion had lost—or rather, the one that had been _taken_ —who had done that? More concerningly, was Dandelion talking about an abortion, or someone ripping the newborn child from his arms? Would one of those have been better than the other?

He shook his head at himself. There was no use in speculating. If Dandelion felt comfortable enough, he’d talk about it. And if he didn’t, Geralt wasn’t about to press.

For now, Geralt had a simple action plan. He would keep Dandelion safe, making sure his injuries were healing and that he had enough to eat, and then, if Dandelion agreed, he would take him out of this city. If the omega had a home he wanted to return to, then Geralt would deliver him there.

Travel, though, probably wasn’t going to happen terribly soon. Dandelion was not exactly up for much walking, and riding a horse… well, now Geralt had seen his bruises. Horse-riding, even if Roach was uncharacteristically gentle, was quite out of the question.

Geralt swore quietly under his breath. What was he _doing_? He had no idea how to take care of another person, much less a heavily traumatized, injured, pregnant omega.

_Fuck_.

But as he slid down into a cross-legged seat against the wall and looked across the room, watching the blankets on the bed rise and fall faintly with each of Dandelion’s breaths…

Geralt wanted to do the right thing.

So maybe he could figure it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yaaaay also saaaaaad but also yaaaay
> 
> Also!   
> I love you guys so much 🥺 your kudos and comments have been 1000% making my week. I've fallen a bit behind on replying to comments, but even if didn't get to yours... well, I did read it, and it probably made me shed a tear of joy. Y'all are amazing <3<3<3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Communication???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: vomit, references to past abuse

Geralt had a fire crackling in the hearth and some fresh bread, eggs, and cheese ready on the table by the time Dandelion let out a sleepy little hum and rolled over, curling further under the blankets. Then the omega stilled, and slowly pulled the covers down enough for Geralt to catch a glimpse of messy chestnut hair and those brilliant blue eyes, whose color was just too close to the violet end of the spectrum to be quite ordinary.

“Good morning,” Geralt said quietly as Dandelion sat up, keeping the blankets around his shoulders. It was difficult to judge anything from Dandelion’s instantly-guarded expression. “How are you feeling?”

Dandelion’s gaze flicked around the room before fixing on Geralt again. “I’m… cold.”

Geralt stood, minding that the motion wasn’t quick enough to be startling. All the same, his ears caught the sharp, quiet intake of breath from Dandelion. He held out his hands placatingly. “May I feel your forehead? To take your temperature?”

Swallowing nervously, Dandelion nodded.

Geralt crossed the room and gently touched the backs of his fingers to the omega’s forehead. Dandelion shivered at his touch. Geralt withdrew his hand and took a step back, putting a comfortable amount of distance between them. “You’re still a bit feverish,” he said. Beyond that, malnourishment couldn’t be cured with one hearty dinner, and Geralt couldn’t imagine that Dandelion had many reserves from which to draw warmth. “I got breakfast. Would you like to eat in front of the fire?”

Dandelion looked faintly distressed. “Um… Geralt…” He pressed a hand over his mouth. “I—”

Geralt reacted just in time, pulling the blankets out of the way as Dandelion collapsed over the edge of the bed and retched.

“Oh, gods,” Dandelion gasped. “Oh, gods, I’m so sorry—” He was interrupted by another heave, the previous night’s dinner making a reappearance on the floor. Tears filled the omega’s eyes even as his body shook with nausea. “I’m so fucking sorry—”

“Don’t apologize,” Geralt soothed awkwardly. “You didn’t do anything.”

Fat tears were streaming down Dandelion’s face, and once again, the metallic smell of fear began to fill the room, overwhelming both the smell of sick and Dandelion’s own meadow-and-vanilla scent. “I’m so sorry—”

“Shh,” Geralt said. “Listen, it’s alright.” Tentatively, he reached out to rest his palm between the omega’s shoulder blades, where he had traced comforting circles the night before. “Do you… do you think you’re done?”

“I don’t know,” Dandelion said. His voice was quiet and choked with repressed sobs. “I’m so sorry.”

“Do you think you’re ill?” Geralt had attributed Dandelion’s fever to his injuries—some of those on his back had infected, after all, and any level of torment could induce a fever if it was distressing enough—but it would also make sense if the omega was properly sick. His body wasn’t in any shape to fight off an illness.

Dandelion shook slightly under Geralt’s touch, but when Geralt moved his hand away, the omega let out a miserable whine. “I—this happens,” he mumbled. “In the morning, especially, but—” another retch cut him off.

Geralt relaxed a little. He’d heard of this happening, of pregnancies inducing nausea in the mornings. “Then it could just be the baby?” That was good. That meant this was unpleasant, but probably not actually dangerous.

Dandelion’s eyes snapped up to him, wide and full of fear. “Not the baby’s fault,” he managed desperately. “I—I’ll do better, I—”

Fucking gods. This was heartbreaking. “Dandelion,” Geralt said firmly. “It’s nobody’s fault.”

“But—”

“I’m not angry. I promise.” He held out his hand. “Come sit in front of the fire, okay? See if you can eat something, and I’ll clean this up.”

The omega was still crying quietly, but he obeyed with an immediacy that made it clear he’d interpreted Geralt’s suggestion as an order.

Geralt steadied him as he swayed on his feet. “I meant if you want,” he said. “You don’t have to.”

“I…” His gaze slid to the vomit on the floor, then to the fire, then to Geralt. “I don’t…”

The witcher shifted so that he supported Dandelion by the elbows. “How about I help you to the hearth, and if you don’t like it, you can move someplace else?”

Dandelion was shivering slightly now that he was no longer under the blankets. “O—okay.”

Geralt supported most of the omega’s weight as he led him to the hearth. When Dandelion had braced himself on the wall, Geralt carefully let go. “Wait here a moment.” He returned to the bed and brought over a pillow and the blankets. He set the pillow on the floor. “Here.” Holding Dandelion’s thin hand, he helped lower him to a seat on the cushion. Then he carefully draped the blankets over the omega’s shoulders. “Is that alright?”

“Um…” Dandelion turned to look up at Geralt with suspicious eyes. “Y-yes, actually, it’s… it’s wonderful.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said. He took a piece of bread from the table—not flavorful enough to worsen nausea, he hoped, but hearty enough to do some good—and offered it to Dandelion. “Here.”

When the omega had thanked him quietly and begun nibbling on the crust, Geralt turned his attention to the vomit. There wasn’t that much of it, fortunately, and it didn’t take long to handle.

When he had finished with that, he brought his own plate down from the table and folded himself into a cross-legged seat a respectful distance from Dandelion. He noticed the omega stiffen as he did so, so he simply stared into the fire and ate quietly. He knew that it wasn’t really possible to make himself unobtrusive—fuck, he was a white-haired witcher covered in the scars from successful kills—but he could try his best. After a few minutes, Dandelion relaxed enough to take another little bite of his bread.

“Dandelion,” Geralt said.

The omega instantly tensed again, and Geralt quietly cursed in his head. Still, nothing for it now.

He’d given this some thought the night before. “I was thinking of going out today. To get medicine for you.” He’d rifled through all of his supplies before coming to the fairly-obvious conclusion that most of it would poison any humans it came in contact with. “You could stay here while I go, or you could come with me, or I could stay here with you and go sometime later.” He glanced up to where Dandelion was regarding him with a dubious expression. “Which would you prefer?”

Dandelion stared at him for a long moment before venturing a reply. “Is… there a right answer?”

Geralt shrugged. “No. No wrong one, either. I suppose I’d prefer you not choose to come with me if I go today; you need to rest. But it’s your choice.”

Dandelion was frowning slightly, clearly thinking. “If I choose to stay,” he said, “what’s to stop me leaving as soon as you’re gone?”

“Nothing,” Geralt said with a hint of chagrin. “I’m not holding you here. You could leave whenever you liked.” He frowned. “It would be better if you didn’t, though. You have my word that you are safe here. I can protect you.”

“You don’t think I can protect myself?” The words were past Dandelion’s lips like a reflex, and immediately, the omega pressed his palms to his mouth, eyes flying wide.

Again, a little roll of relief slipped through Geralt. Lip was good. It indicated a level of comfort if Dandelion was talking back, didn’t it? Then again… he frowned slightly. The omega looked terrified now. Maybe he was really just impulsive as all fuck. “I’m sure you could,” Geralt said carefully, “under normal circumstances. With all due respect… you can barely walk.”

At the same time his expression of fear eased a degree, Dandelion’s face fell. “I…” He pressed his lips together and looked away before Geralt could tell if the omega had teared up again. He thought he had; the scent of misery tinged the air. It wasn’t the same smell as fear, or even pain—this was deeper, duller and more profound. This was the scent of grief. Of failure. “Sorry,” he whispered.

Geralt took a long, slow breath. “Dandelion,” he said finally. He needed to select his words very carefully. “I know you can manage on your own. I’m sure you can. But this is a situation you didn’t ask for, that’s not your fault.”

So quietly that even Geralt nearly missed it, Dandelion tucked his knees to his chest and mumbled into them. “I wish it was.”

Geralt blinked. “What?”

Dandelion didn’t look at him, but his body language slumped a little farther inward. He obviously hadn’t meant for Geralt to hear, but it was too late for that, wasn’t it? “I wish it was my fault.” He hugged his knees. “I wish it was all, _all_ my fault.”

Entirely lost, Geralt could do nothing but stare.

Then he felt understanding fall into his chest like a weight. “Oh _fuck_.”

The omega’s face turned to him. His eyes were wide, but their corners were hard.

“If it was your fault,” Geralt said slowly, “then you were in control. And…”

Dandelion’s hands pressed to the floor and curled to fists, his bandaged fingertips scraping over the wooden planks. Geralt could see his cheeks were wet with tears that shone in the firelight. “And I wasn’t,” Dandelion finished. His voice was hoarse and tight and very, very small. “I wasn’t in control at _all_.” His breath hitched, his fists clenching tighter; Geralt smelled blood and realized Dandelion must have reopened the wounds of his fingertips.

Geralt inhaled through his nose, and let it out slowly. _Fuck_. His instincts were screaming to take Dandelion into his arms, to hold the smaller man close and protect him from the world, but… well, he couldn’t, could he? Because even if Dandelion permitted the contact, even if Geralt never let another bastard lay a finger on the omega for as long as he lived, there was nothing that Geralt could do to protect Dandelion from his own mind and memory. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Well…” He hadn’t finished his own food, but that was alright; unlike Dandelion, he thought he could afford to miss a few bites. He stood, trying to keep the motion unthreatening. “A choice is control, isn’t it?”

Dandelion looked up at him, blinking away tears and somehow still managing to look skeptical.

Geralt set his plate on the table. “What do you want to do?”

The omega brushed at his tear-streaked cheeks with the backs of his hands. “If you leave,” he said after a while, “and I stay, what will you do?”

“Get medicine,” Geralt said. “And maybe restock a few supplies for myself. I’d come back in a couple hours.”

“No, I mean…” His eyes darted to the mantle, where Geralt, uncertain what to do with it, had discarded the muzzle. “What would you do… _before_ you left?”

Geralt followed the omega’s gaze, and then frowned. “Hmm.” He picked up the muzzle and examined it briefly. Still seated on the floor, he could hear Dandelion’s breath hitch.

Holding the hellish apparatus, Geralt squatted next to Dandelion in front of the fire.

And tossed the muzzle into the flames.

He watched it for a moment to make sure the leather straps had begun to smolder in earnest, and then turned back to Dandelion.

The omega’s eyes were huge, and his mouth hung open slightly. “You—what—” He stared at Geralt disbelievingly. “ _What?_ ”

“I told you,” Geralt grunted. “And I’ll say it as often as I have to, okay? I will not hurt you.” He didn’t blink as he held eye contact, golden into blue. “When I go, you can do whatever you like. I hope you stay here, because I’m going to come back with medicine for your injuries, and because I don’t want to see you hurt by other people. But the choice is _only_ _yours_ to make.” He examined the omega’s expression. “Alright?”

Looking faintly stunned, Dandelion nodded minutely.

“Good.” Geralt pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly longer chapter this time! I was gonna put this up on Monday, but I got a bit excited. I'm gonna try to get the next chapter posted on Wednesday, but this week is going to be a little busy... I'll see what I can do!
> 
> Anyway, a million thanks again to everyone who's left kudos or comments. I grin like a whole moron when I check for them, it really makes me so happy. Love y'all tons!!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: I don't think there are any, but let me know in the comments if there are any I need to add

The town was less busy than it had been the day before—likely a combination of the early morning, the chilly weather, and the fact that it didn’t seem to be a market day. That was alright; the shops would still be open.

Geralt paused a few people to ask directions to the nearest apothecary, doing his best, as usual, to ignore their expressions of nervousness in his presence. The shop they pointed out was a tidy-looking place, if a bit crookedly-built, and Geralt squinted a bit at the morning sunlight that glinted off of the mulled-glass bay windows. The door was painted a quiet sage green, and inside, Geralt could see bottles on shelves and herb bundles hanging from the ceiling.

He pushed his way inside to the sound of a small bell.

“Hello!” came a cheerful voice as soon as he’d passed the threshold. The woman was a beta, plump and smiling, with brilliant red hair swept up into a bun on the top her head. Her eyes widened for a split second when she saw Geralt’s ice-white hair and yellow eyes, but to her credit, the expression was quickly gone. “Let me know if there’s anything you need!”

The shop smelled warm, like tea leaves mixed with the tang of medicine. “Thank you,” Geralt said. The shop was compact and clearly organized, but he wasn’t sure how the organization system was arranged. Easiest to ask. “I need something that can clear fever, and infection in a wound,” he started, “and something for bruising, if you have it.”

“Of course.” The woman gave a quick bow. “Anything else?”

Geralt thought for a moment. “Actually, yes. My… hmm. My friend is pregnant, and it’s making him nauseous. Is there anything I could get to help that?”

The woman smiled broadly. “Oh, that’s sweet.” She smoothed off her skirt. “He’s lucky to have you.”

“I just want him to be comfortable.”

The shopkeeper was still beaming. “Goodness, he _is_ fortunate, isn’t he?”

Geralt blinked. Was such a simple measure of decency surprising? “He’s… not really?”

“Oh, you’re modest.” The woman laughed. “Well, anyway. I have something that could help. One moment, and I’ll get everything for you.”

Geralt waited by the counter while the beta woman bustled about collecting a couple bottles and pots of ointment before hurrying over. She showed him each one before rolling it into brown paper for protection and setting it aside.

“This one is for the morning sickness,” she said. “A spoonful at night should do it, but keep an eye on him around the bottle.” She gave it a little shake. “If he drank the whole thing, he’d probably lose your baby.”

Geralt stopped himself from correcting her, though he had to bite the tip of his tongue to do so—to admit that Dandelion was not his mate and that Dandelion’s baby was not Geralt’s would raise questions about Dandelion that Geralt didn’t think were his to answer. “I’ll let him know.”

“Why not just measure it out yourself?”

Geralt frowned. On the one hand, that might be considerate. On the other hand, it also felt distinctly like a lack of trust that Dandelion could take care of himself and his unborn child, which Geralt really wanted to make sure he avoided. “I’m sure he can handle it.”

“But the risk—”

“Please,” Geralt interrupted, a bit brusquely. “Leave that to him and I.”

Looking slightly chastised, the shopkeeper shook her head and moved on. “Right. Here.” She picked up a bottle for Geralt to see and began wrapping it. “Two spoonfuls of this every day for the fever,” she said, and picked up a clay pot of ointment. “And rub this gently into any wounds or bruises.”

Geralt accepted the paper-wrapped medicines and located the appropriate number of orens. “Thank you.”

The shopkeeper nodded, her brightness returning. “Have a lovely day!”

***

It was afternoon by the time Geralt got back to the inn, bearing the medicine and several other new packages. On the way up the stairs, he hesitated.

What if Dandelion wasn’t there?

He’d meant it when he told the omega that he was free to do as he pleased. And if he left… well, that meant Geralt could be on his way. But for some reason, the idea of walking into the room and finding it empty left a distinctly hollow feeling behind his breastbone.

He shook himself quickly and finished his walk up the stairs with more purpose. There was no use in wondering about it. All the same, the hallway, lit with bracketed candles, felt longer than he’d remembered.

It was almost startling how relieved he was to hear a heartbeat behind the door when he reached his room: something tight in his core relaxed, almost melting. Shifting his packages to one side, he quietly unlocked the door and pushed his way in.

Dandelion was in the bed. Once again, the blankets were tucked protectively up to his chin, and he was curled up tightly beneath them. His chest rose and fell steadily in sleep, but his face was troubled. His forehead was furrowed to a little crease between his eyelids, and his hands were closed tightly on the blanket. He mumbled something quietly.

Geralt sighed and set all of his purchases on the table, doing his best not to disturb Dandelion. He’d gotten a number of things that he really hoped the omega would like, but it was also important that Dandelion slept—Geralt could wait until he woke up.

This train of thought was interrupted by a soft whimper from the bed. Dandelion shifted, and as Geralt stepped over worriedly, a tear edged out from beneath Dandelion’s eyelashes. It rolled over the bridge of his nose and across the opposite cheek until, with another sleep-muffled sob, he pressed himself deeper into the pillow. His knuckles had gone white on the edge of the blanket.

Geralt reached out instinctively, then withdrew his hand. He squatted next to the bed so that if the omega woke, Geralt wasn’t towering over him. “Dandelion?” he said softly.

Dandelion let out a helpless moan. The scent of distress was powerful, dampened only by the depth of his sleep.

“Dandelion,” Geralt tried again. “Wake up. You’re okay.”

He wasn’t surprised when that didn’t work.

As lightly as he could, Geralt placed his palm on Dandelion’s upper arm. The omega shivered under the touch. “Hey,” Geralt said, giving Dandelion’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Are you alright?”

With a final muffled cry, Dandelion’s bright blue eyes opened.

Then his pupils tightened, and in one motion, he had flown out from under the blankets and flattened himself into the corner where the bed met the wall. His chest heaved with fast, uneven breathing, and Geralt could hear his heart pounding.

“Whoa!” Geralt said, holding up his hands in surrender and taking a step back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Dandelion’s eyes flicked around the room frantically until, slowly, he sank to his knees on the mattress with a deep, shuddering breath.

Still holding his hands where Dandelion could see them, Geralt moved half a step closer. “Are you alright? You were having a nightmare…”

It didn’t seem that Dandelion had wholly stabilized his breathing. “I’m—I’m okay.” He rubbed at his eyes for a moment, and then ran his palms over his cheeks to clear away the last tears. “I’m fine.”

“It’s okay if you’re not.”

Dandelion only looked away.

Unsure how to fill the heavy silence that followed, Geralt gestured vaguely to the table. “I got you some things.”

Dandelion’s gaze flicked over the various packages. “Oh.”

Geralt moved to the table and unwrapped the goods from the apothecary. “Medicine, like I said. And some things I just…” He shrugged. He knew Dandelion needed new clothes, but he had to admit to himself that he’d gone a little bit beyond necessities. “Thought you’d like.”

It was gratifying to see that Dandelion was definitely curious, even though he still looked wary.

“Here,” Geralt said. He loosened the paper so that Dandelion wouldn’t have to struggle with his still-bandaged fingertips, and handed him a package.

Dandelion accepted it, but then hesitated. “How, um.” He swallowed. “How will you want me to pay you back?”

Geralt shook his head, taking a seat at the table. “You don’t need to pay me back.”

The omega’s eyes narrowed. Geralt noticed that his hands hadn’t moved to unwrap the package, like if he didn’t properly accept it, he might avoid whatever he thought Geralt would demand afterward.

“I mean it,” Geralt said. “I make plenty of money on my jobs, and I don’t spend much on myself.” He nodded at the package in Dandelion’s hands. “I don’t want anything in return for that. I just hope it makes you… I don’t know. Feel better.”

Dandelion didn’t look quite like he believed Geralt, but he tentatively tugged back the brown paper all the same. His eyes widened a little bit, and he held up its contents.

It was a sweater, the softest Geralt had been able to find. It was dark blue, duller than Dandelion’s eyes but Geralt still thought it was a pretty color. “I thought it might fit you better,” he said. “Than my clothes, I mean. And it’s warm, so…” he trailed off, uncertain.

Dandelion tore his eyes from the sweater and stared at Geralt in disbelief. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

As if he was afraid Geralt would take it away again, Dandelion hugged it to his chest.

Geralt held up a couple more packages. “I got you some pants, too. And socks, and boots. And if you need it, I’ll get you a cloak.”

Tears, once again, were budding in Dandelion’s eyes, but this time, he didn’t smell unhappy. “Thank you,” he whispered, still holding the sweater close. “Thank you so much. I—I’ll try to, um. I’ll try to earn it.”

“You still don’t have to,” Geralt chided gently. “Now, do you want to change?” He picked up the ointment pot and showed it to Dandelion. “I can treat your back while your shirt’s off.”

Dandelion tensed nervously.

“I promise I’ll be careful,” Geralt said. “I know how to handle injuries.” He unscrewed the lid and gave the pot to Dandelion to inspect. “Will you let me do this?”

The omega sniffed at the medicine, and then frowned faintly at Geralt, a questioning look in his eyes. “I could say no?”

“You could.”

Dandelion’s eyes narrowed a degree farther. “Then… no.”

Geralt sighed. “Okay. Do you think you’ll do it yourself?”

At Geralt’s resigned sigh, Dandelion had drawn back as if startled. Now, he leaned forward, eyes still narrowed, wary and curious. “No,” he said.

Geralt looked at Dandelion for a moment, examining the omega’s expression. Then he released his breath and turned away. “Alright. Your choice.”

Behind him, he heard the bed creak, and looked over his shoulder to see Dandelion sitting back, looking stunned. “Really?”

“Of course,” Geralt said. “It’s your body.”

“Never has been before,” Dandelion said, quietly enough that Geralt didn’t think he was supposed to hear. He chewed his lip for a moment, and then held out the pot. “I just… wanted to see,” he said abashedly. “I… I’ll let you help me.”

Geralt smiled. That was an honest surprise to him. He just… wasn’t the kind of person who smiled very much. “Thank you,” he said, accepting the ointment. “I’ll do the best I can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry for missing Wednesday--this has been a WEEK. I bombed a quiz, got harassed outside a restaurant, a bird got into my house two separate times, and then to round out the week, I ran into a table with my face and broke my front teeth. Which won't be fixed for two more weeks.
> 
> BUT IM VIBING
> 
> Anyway! Thank you again so much for all your kudos and comments. I adore all of them. I couldn't reply to all the comments on the last chapter, but I did read them, and I loved every single one <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: non-graphic description of injury, depiction of a panic attack

Dandelion knelt on the bed with his shirt off, shivering despite the blazing fire that Geralt had stoked in the hearth. Geralt stood behind him, which was making Dandelion’s breathing speed up—gods, it would be so easy for Geralt to push him forward and force him stomach-first onto the bed. Dandelion knew he wasn’t in any state to resist—the witcher could probably pin him with nothing but a hand on his back.

But when the witcher alpha had asked if he could treat Dandelion’s wounds, and Dandelion, in a moment of boldness that he could only attribute to exhaustion and maybe a fever, had said _no_ … Geralt had only looked resigned. _“It’s your body,”_ he’d said. And the concern in his words had sounded genuine. Besides that, he’d burned the muzzle to a collection of useless, blackened rods. And he hadn’t so much as raised a threatening hand when Dandelion had vomited all over the floor.

So Dandelion tried very hard to school his breathing into something that resembled being calm.

Geralt’s fingers pressed into Dandelion’s shoulder as the alpha untucked the end of the bandage. “Are you ready?”

Dandelion let out a breath, and couldn’t help it when it shook. “Yes.”

He squeezed his eyes closed as Geralt unwound the bandage from Dandelion’s torso. It clung to the wounds in some places, and Dandelion couldn’t prevent himself from hissing in pain as Geralt gently parted flesh and fabric. “Are you alright?” Geralt asked.

“Fine,” Dandelion managed. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” The witcher finished unwrapping the bandage, and set it on the floor. Though he still couldn’t see behind him, Dandelion heard Geralt let out a breath, and what sounded like a quiet curse.

“It’s bad,” Dandelion murmured. He didn’t need to ask; he knew it was bad.

“Its…” Geralt hesitated. “Yes.”

Faintly, Dandelion felt Geralt’s fingers ghost over one of the wounds. He shivered.

“Did Bartek do all this?”

Dandelion closed his eyes. _Breathe_. “Much of it.”

“You have a lot of old scars.”

Dandelion yelped, startled, as Geralt began to gently rub ointment into one of the lashes. It was cold, and it burned before fading into numbness. He gritted his teeth, tears pricking into his eyes. “Yes.”

The witcher dabbed lightly at another wound. “Not all of these were made with a whip.”

“Correct.” Dandelion’s hands were fisted in the bedding. The renewed pain—even if it was only helping, even if he _knew_ that—was making him feel strange. Too light in his chest, strangely weak everywhere else. His fingertips buzzed with static, and he couldn’t clench his fists any harder.

His breathing was speeding up.

Geralt must have noticed. The alpha stopped, withdrawing his hands from Dandelion’s back. “Dandelion?”

 _That name_. Dandelion braced his hands on his knees.

“Dandelion,” Geralt said, and Dandelion thought he sounded worried. His voice was just as loud as it should be, maybe too loud, but faraway all the same. “Dandelion, are you alright?”

Dandelion’s vision had started to swim. His back hurt. Fuck, everything hurt. And his hands were shaking even as they were clenched on his knees. “I… don’t know?”

“Okay,” Geralt said, and there was really something about his voice, wasn’t there? He managed to sound calm without sounding like he didn’t care, and Dandelion hadn’t even known that was something that someone could do. “Okay. Do you know what’s happening?”

“You’re…” He blinked.

What was happening.

Geralt was…

Hurting him from behind.

He had a whip. Or he had sharp teeth. Or he had a hand tangled deep in Dandelion’s hair, pulling his head back and forcing him to bare his throat.

Dandelion didn’t notice when he collapsed to his elbows on the bed.

Geralt was…

Behind him. With a knife, or was it a saw, cutting off… ripping away his…

“Dandelion _._ ”

Dandelion was breathing much, much too fast. His head was spinning, so, so light, and he was on his side on the bed, curled up like he had a chance of defending himself that way.

“Dandelion! Dandelion, look at me.”

 _That name_.

“Bartek named me Dandelion,” he heard himself mumbling. “He named me when I was crying, he had just—” He choked. Bartek had been rougher than anyone who had owned Dandelion before. He’d liked it best when Dandelion could barely stand afterward. “I—”

Suddenly, there were hands on his shoulders, warm and callused and holding him firmly. The next thing he knew, arms were around him, guiding his head into the crook of a neck, and he was breathing in an alpha’s undiluted scent. It was wild and strong, like forest and smoke, and he whimpered as he felt his body react.

He couldn’t fight biology. His muscles went slack. He felt himself melt submissively into the hold, the alpha’s scent soothing him as much as it terrified.

The alpha was talking to him, low and soft, but firm. Dandelion had to listen. He had to.

“Dandelion,” he was saying, and Dandelion wanted to cry, or maybe he _was_ crying. “I’ll call you anything you like. You are safe, do you understand?” He moved to pull away from the embrace.

Dandelion heard his own pitiful whine. In response, the alpha held him close again, cradling Dandelion's head closer against his neck.

“I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I’m so sorry.”

There were tears spilling down Dandelion’s cheeks. “G-Geralt?”

“It’s me,” the alpha murmured. “You’re safe. I promise, you’re safe.”

Dandelion let out a little sob, and felt Geralt stroke his hair back away from his face. “I—I don’t know what’s happening—”

“You’re panicking,” Geralt said. He was speaking in that steady, grounding tone, and when his voice rumbled through Dandelion’s chest, Dandelion felt like he could breathe. “Just stay with me, okay?”

Dandelion was still boneless in Geralt’s arms, face buried into the crook of Geralt’s neck, Geralt’s scent enveloping him. His voice was very small. “Okay.”

“Talk to me,” Geralt said, still gently stroking Dandelion’s hair. “Is there a name you prefer to ‘Dandelion?’”

“I… um…” It was hard to concentrate. His body had stopped tingling with fear, but his mind was supplying memories that vied for his attention and threatened to drag him into the dark. “I went by ‘Jaskier,’ he said finally, voice trembling. “A long, long time ago.”

“Jaskier?” Geralt said softly. “That’s a beautiful name. Would you like me to call you Jaskier?”

“I—” His breath hitched. “Would… would you do that?”

“Of course,” Geralt said. “Of course, I would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! How 'bout that!! Oh, by the way--we are starting to accumulate some lil hints of non-human Jaskier! nyahahaha
> 
> I think all your well-wishes did me good: this week has been off to a great start, so thank you so much! 😊  
> As always, comments and kudos make my day!!!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We knew Jaskier was struggling, but we're about to find more about why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: mentions of past rape/non-con/violation, past abuse

“How are you paying for the inn?”

Dandelion—no, _Jaskier_ , his name was _Jaskier_ —was sitting on the cushion in front of the fire, enshrouded in a blanket that Geralt had tucked over his shoulders. It had taken a little over an hour after his meltdown for him to let Geralt near his injuries again, but now he was bandaged tidily once more. Beyond that, Geralt had given him the medicines for the fever and relayed the apothecary’s instructions, and then the witcher had given Jaskier the pot of ointment and stepped out of the room so that the omega could treat his more sensitive injuries in private.

Now, Jaskier sat crosslegged before the hearth, dark circles prominent under his eyes. He wore his new clothes—which, Geralt was pleased to note, fit him well, except for the sweater which was a bit big and swallowed the omega’s hands in the sleeves—and beneath his exhaustion, Geralt thought he looked marginally less unhappy. “I mean,” Jaskier said when Geralt took too long to reply, “I think I, um.” It looked like he cringed, but Geralt couldn’t be sure. “I think I know what witchers do, but…?” He trailed off uncertainly, leaving the end of the question hanging.

“Hmm,” Geralt said. “I kill monsters.”

Jaskier nodded introspectively. “I see.”

Geralt was on his third round of cleaning his weapons—he really wasn’t used to spending so much time in one room—but he set down his rag at the tone of the omega’s voice. “Hmm.” He tilted the sword, watching the light flash on its surface. “So. I know your name now.”

The ghost of a smile flickered over Jaskier’s face. “You know the right one.”

Geralt ran the rag down the flat of his silver blade. “How many have you had?” Jaskier fell silent for a few moments, and Geralt wondered if that had been a bad question to ask. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“No, no,” Jaskier said quietly. “I’m just… counting.” He frowned slightly. Other than the weary darkness under his eyes and the little cut on his jaw where the muzzle had bitten, he looked… pretty. His eyes were gracefully accented with long lashes, and his features were lovely and delicate. His chestnut hair, slightly curly now that it wasn’t weighted by filth and grease, caught the warmth of the firelight and looked immaculately soft.

Geralt blinked.

He couldn’t be thinking like that.

He shook his head as Jaskier’s eyes flicked back to his. “Seven,” he said. “I’ve had seven names.”

Geralt blinked. “So you’ve had… six owners?”

Jaskier shook his head, lips pressing together. “Nine. Some of them called me whatever the previous one had. And some just called me ‘omega.’”

“Hmm,” Geralt said, scowling. His hand had stilled on his blade, polishing forgotten. “Is this something you’re comfortable talking about?”

“No…” Jaskier said softly. He looked away. “I… think I want to, though.” He bit his lip. “I feel different. I don’t know why.”

“I’ll listen to anything you want to tell me,” Geralt said. “But please stop if you want to.”

Jaskier nodded, eyes growing distant again. “Nine owners,” he said quietly. “Since I presented at… thirteen?” He swallowed, drawing the blanket a little closer. “My father sold me.”

“Your _father_ sold you?” Geralt asked, aghast.

Jaskier shrugged heavily. “I had suspected that’s what would happen if I presented this way,” he sighed. “But… yeah. I was thirteen.”

“Gods,” Geralt murmured. Jaskier’s father had to have known what kind of life his son would face in slavery… right? “How old are you now?”

“Hell if I know,” Jaskier murmured. “Maybe twenty? Give or take?” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Suppose not,” Geralt said quietly.

“Anyway,” Jaskier went on. “Nine owners. Seven men, two women. Most of them had me on some kind of birth control—y’know, they just wanted to fuck, not breed.” He rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Sometimes those messed me up pretty well. Once, a new owner took me off what I’d been on for the previous two years, and then I had three heats in two months.”

“That sounds…” Geralt put down the rag and set his sword on the table, leaning forward. “Gods, Jaskier.”

“Heh.” He smiled without any light. “I thought I was going to die.” He fell quiet, and Geralt watched as, without warning, any animation drained out of his expression. Darkness fell over his eyes; his hands, which had been pressed against his shins to hold his knees to his chest, grasped too tightly at his opposite wrists.

“Jaskier…?” Geralt ventured.

Jaskier stiffened as if startled, looking up. “Oh!” He tugged up the edge of the blanket, which had slipped off his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

It really didn’t seem to matter how often Geralt told the omega to stop apologizing, so he didn’t say it again. At this point, he was afraid it would feel like a chastisement. “Did something happen?”

Jaskier took a long time to answer. Finally, he addressed the floor. “Do you ever feel like… like something happened in the past,” he said, biting his lip, “but it doesn’t… _stay_ there?”

Geralt propped his elbows on his knees. “Maybe. Tell me what you mean.”

Jaskier fidgeted. “Like…” He took a deep breath. “Like, it isn’t over, it hasn’t ended. But it’s not happening in _your_ life. And so you can’t just forget it, there’s no closure, because it’s still _out there_.” He was getting agitated. “And sometimes it’s all you can think about, because… because you were supposed to be there, and you couldn’t even do anything.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said. He got up from the chair, noticed with chagrin that Jaskier cringed back when he did. _Dammit_. He took a settling breath. That was to be expected. He still thought Jaskier had made progress, but apparently, they were dealing with seven years of accumulated trauma. He knelt to be closer to Jaskier’s eye level. “Is talking to me something you want to do?”

The omega hesitated. Then, minutely, he nodded.

“Hmm. Then you can talk to me.” Jaskier was clearly dancing around a topic and Geralt… had an idea as to what it might be.

Jaskier’s eyes slid to the side, away from Geralt’s eye contact. “Nobody’s said that to me in years.”

“It’s the truth.” He nudged Jaskier’s knee, making the omega look up. “I’m glad you’re talking more. It’s a good thing.”

“Is it?”

Geralt nodded.

Jaskier let out his breath in one long, shaky exhalation. “Alright,” he murmured. Geralt could hear his heartrate trip higher, his hands fidgeting again. “Then… then this was a year ago.” The fire popped and he startled, clearly on edge. “You know how I said most people wanted to fuck, not breed?”

“Yes.”

“Well… you know.” He looked away again. “That wasn’t _all_ people.” He licked his lips. “Being bred is already not… not fun.” His face was flushed, but Geralt didn’t think it was embarrassment. More likely, it was remembered horror and, possibly, well-placed anger. “Breeders are invasive. Tests to make sure you’re fertile. Examinations. Poking and probing, _real_ up-close and personal.” He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath through his nose and letting it out. “I don’t… really want to get into that? The point is that one of my owners sold me to a breeder’s market, and some rich bastard bought me as a gift for their son whose wife was barren. The son then proceeded to fuck me through all three heats of those godawful two months.”

There was more resentment in Jaskier’s voice than fear. Geralt stayed silent, frozen by horror and the need to let the omega talk.

“I got pregnant. Of course.” Jaskier’s voice was uneven with fury and grief. “And… and then I had a baby.” The corners of his lips twitched into a broken smile, and his eyes grew damp. Fuck, Geralt was going to have to make sure Jaskier drank enough water; he was going to get dehydrated at this rate. “Her bastard fucking father took one look at her and said she was no child of his.” His hands balled into fists, and when he spoke, his voice was shattered. “He was going to _sell_ her, Geralt. He was going to sell my _baby_.” A tear dripped off his chin, and he wiped it away viciously. “So I ran.” The sleeves of his sweater were getting damp. “I managed for almost two months. But…” His breath hitched.

Geralt filled in the space, unable to bite back a growl. “Bartek.”

Jaskier nodded miserably. “He found us. Offered us a place to stay for the night. But I’m not—I’m not stupid.” He pressed his palms to his forehead, hiding his face. “So I said no. And then he shoved a needle in my neck, and when I woke up in that cell, Clara was gone.”

“Clara,” Geralt repeated quietly.

Jaskier nodded again. Hie eyes were puffy. “Bartek had me for six months,” he said dully. “I tried to ask where she was. But for the first two months… I might as well have not existed, Geralt.” He shuddered. “Bartek did not speak to me. He did not touch me.” He brushed away another tear. “You’d think that would be a relief, but it wasn’t.

“He only acknowledged me when I finally broke. It was… violent. He had a very good time, and I did not.” He picked anxiously at one of the bandages covering his fingertips. “When he was pulling his clothes on in my cell, I asked him where Clara was. And when he continued to say nothing, I snapped. Entirely.” He shivered. “Gods, I was _feral_. But he’s a big fucking alpha, and I’m…” He gestured to himself with one arm in disgust. “ _This_.” He hugged his knees again. “He put the muzzle on, after that. Wasn’t the first time I’d had to wear one, but it was the worst.”

Jaskier fell silent, but Geralt didn’t move. There was a lot to process.

“Jaskier,” he said after a few minutes of no sound but the fire’s crackle. “Thank you.”

Jaskier blinked. “For what?”

Geralt shifted to his knees. “For trusting me. Telling me this.” He let out a short breath. “I’ve decided some things.”

Wariness crept over Jaskier’s tear-stained face. “What?”

“Firstly,” Geralt said, flexing his hands to work out the tension of holding them taut so long, “I am going to get your daughter back.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but disbelief seemed to steal his words.

“Secondly,” Geralt continued. He could feel protective warmth surging in him; it had been building since he’d seen Jaskier filthy and bleeding in a disgusting basement cell, and as Jaskier had told his story, that feeling had reached a livid, burning peak. “I am going to kill Bartek.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it 4:20? Yes. Have I finished the linguistics paper due tomorrow night? No. Do I even remember what's in this chapter despite having written it but half an hour ago? haha, nope! My brain turned off at 3 am!!! Also, I've officially abandoned any hopes of an update schedule. Toes and Candycorn will still update a couple times a week, but I have absolutely no idea when!
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your kudos and comments. You've really been making me so damn happy <3<3<3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mUrDeR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Blood, mentions of past abuse

Geralt left that day.

Jaskier had wanted to come. He’d asked with the sort of hardness around his eyes that belied wells of emotion—hatred, pain, grief and desperation—seeking escape. But as he’d gotten to his feet, hands fisted and face damp with tears, his eyes had widened and he’d clasped a palm to his mouth

Then he’d thrown up.

Geralt had felt strangely honored when the omega had permitted him to trace comforting circles on his back while he heaved, this time making it into an empty bowl from breakfast. Hopefully, when he took the medicine for morning sickness that night, as the apothecary had directed, he’d start feeling better. “Would you rather I wait until you can come with me?” Geralt had asked. He was a bit worried about how it would go if Jaskier said ‘yes’—he wasn’t in any position to deny that Jaskier deserved vengeance, but he didn’t know if returning him to the place where he’d been held captive, abused, and raped for six months was the best of ideas.

So he’d been almost relieved when Jaskier had hesitated, and then shaken his head. “No.” The omega had sunk against the wall, eyes determined. “I don’t want him to be breathing for another moment.”

So now, after having made sure that there was food enough in the room and that the supply of wood by the fire was well-stocked, Geralt armed himself, saddled Roach, and left.

It wasn’t hard to find the way back to Bartek’s house, situated as it was so close to the alderman’s grand one. But even had it not been… well, once he drew near enough, Geralt had only to follow the faint, lingering scent of terrified omega. Of terrified _Jaskier_. Not enough time had passed, apparently, for a scent of such strength to fade.

Tying Roach nearby, Geralt stood before the door and knocked.

He heard footsteps within amble toward the doorway.

And then Bartek was before him.

“Ah!" The other alpha was wearing an eggplant-colored suit this time, and a matching cravat. “If it isn’t Geralt of Rivia.” His eyes narrowed. “My, you don’t look happy. Unsatisfied with the omega? I told you I wasn’t done training it.” He raised an eyebrow hopefully. “If you’re bored, you could always give it back.”

Without a word, Geralt shoved Bartek backward into the house, stepped inside himself, and slammed the door. Inside, the misery-scent was still old, but stronger. It made Geralt’s lip curl.

Bartek’s eyes had widened. “Now, wait a moment. Just what are you doing?”

In reply, Geralt reached for his sword.

Bartek squawked. “What the fuck!” He snarled at Geralt. “Who do you think you are?”

“Shut up,” Geralt said coldly. He drew his steel blade and leveled it at Bartek’s face.

Bartek shut up.

“When you found Jaskier,” Geralt said, “he had a child. Where is she?”

The slave-trader snorted. “Oh, you named him again. Pity, I though Dandelion suited him.” He glared at Geralt. “The bitch’s whelp wasn’t part of your payment, _witcher_.”

Geralt pressed the tip of the blade just above Bartek’s expensive cravat. “Answer me.”

Bartek swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the blade.

“Is—” There was a possibility—perhaps even a probability—that Geralt had been avoiding acknowledging, but he had to ask. “Is she… alive?”

The slaver crossed his arms. “Last I saw her. But that was six months ago, witcher. You’re much too late.”

“Where _is_ she?” Geralt growled. He turned his sword; a drop of blood stained Bartek’s cravat.

“Sold,” Bartek spat, caving. “Some rich old couple wanted a daughter.”

Geralt almost felt himself relax with relief. Almost.

But then Bartek chuckled. “’Course, I doubt they’re very happy with their purchase.”

Geralt frowned. “What?”

Bartek’s lip twisted, and he regarded Geralt with a new look in his eyes, as if seeing him afresh. “This is the fucking omega’s fault, isn’t it?” His eyes narrowed. “You let him talk, and the little bitch whined.”

The witcher did not answer.

Bartek clicked his tongue, looking to the ceiling as if in exasperation. “And now you, with your _bleeding fucking heart_ , are coming here, threatening me, and _ruining_ my cravat.”

No expression crossed Geralt’s face. “Tell me where his daughter is.”

The slaver ignored him. “You know what, witcher? I will tell you something.” He glared at Geralt, making eye contact across the length of Geralt’s sword. “That precious little bitch of yours? The one making your great big alpha heart go _all soft_?” A grin crawled over his face. “You’re staining my cravat over something you’re supposed to _hunt_.” He leaned forward, unblinking, making the sword press harder into his neck. “Him and his whelp, both.”

Geralt felt his eyebrows press together.

Bartek’s grin only widened sickeningly. “Your _Jaskier_ was already mostly fixed by the time I found him. I didn’t notice until later—but then I took care of him all the way.” His chest heaved with choking laughter. “He looked good as gold by the time I was done with him. So fucking pretty, his kind. Aren’t I right?”

“What is his _kind_?” Geralt demanded. “What are you talking about?”

Bartek wheezed, and didn’t answer Geralt’s question. “His spawn still shows it. You know what?” Geralt could see Bartek’s graying gums, so wide was his smile. “I will tell you. She’s in the nearest town to the south. I sold her to a family named Kozlow. Go and look, _witcher_! Go and see what exactly it is you’re defending.”

Geralt gritted his teeth. “ _Tell me_.”

“I’ll give you a hint,” Bartek said viciously, still grinning. “He had two things left for me to fix, and he screamed a lot when I fixed them.” His eyes were manic. “He’s got a little lisp now, have you noticed?” His eyes narrowed from the bottom. “It’s almost adorable.”

Geralt stared at Bartek. “His teeth.” The four little gaps in Jaskier’s mouth, right where his canines should have been.

“Oh, yes.” Another drop of blood slid down Bartek’s neck, but he still raised his hands to wiggle his fingers. “Claws, too.” He laughed. “But don’t worry, Geralt. It doesn’t change anything. I made sure all of his important parts work _just fine_.”

“What is he?” Geralt demanded, voice low. “Last chance.”

“Now?” Bartek said. “After my hard work?” The grin was back, more twisted than ever. “He’s nothing except a hole for your—"

He never finished the sentence.

Geralt’s blade slid through his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (⚆ᗝ⚆)
> 
> Guys, y'all just continue to be the best. Your kudos and comments are just incredible. I love this fandom. I love you dudes


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: vomit, some non-sexual but serious boundary violation

This was worse than what he was used to.

Jaskier knelt on the floor, shivering with chills; he’d dragged the blanket off of the bed again, but it slipped off his thin shoulders every time he heaved. Before Geralt had left, he’d found a basin for Jaskier, and now Jaskier gripped its edge desperately, hands shaking with the effort.

This was horrible.

His first pregnancy hadn’t been like this. Of course, back then, as soon as his scent had turned even warmer and sweeter than it already was, his owner had set him up in a comfortable room with lots of soft things to burrow into. He’d made sure Jaskier ate three—and then four, and then five—meals a day. It hadn’t really been kindness, Jaskier knew that—the man just wanted his child—but Jaskier hadn’t complained. He’d been the soft omega, silent and pregnant like his owner made sure Jaskier knew he was supposed to be. It had been horrible, of course, to be nothing but a womb, but… well, he’d been a warm, well-fed one. Which was much better than other situations he’d faced.

This though? This was the worst.

His body could barely support itself. He knew that. When he’d gotten to his feet to demand the witcher alpha take him along to kill Bartek, his head had swum so strongly that his vision had gone completely blurry, and nausea had clawed its way up his throat. He was injured, malnourished, _weak_. He wasn’t even sleeping well, which was made all the more frustrating by the fact that he actually _had_ a _bed_ , and that wasn’t a privilege that he wanted to squander while he miraculously had it.

All that was to say that, on top of everything else, the baby was… hurting him.

As if to punctuate the thought, he choked, retching, and a drop more bile landed in the basin. There wasn’t even anything to vomit up anymore, but apparently, that didn’t warrant a respite.

Jaskier whined softly, dropping his forehead to rest exhaustedly on the edge of the basin. He pressed a palm to his belly, as if he could feel the new life growing there. “Why do I want you so badly?” he whispered. “You’re not helping me, sweetie.” He heaved again into the basin, and then, panting, curled on his side on the floor. “Is it just hormones? Are you tricking me into keeping you, hm?” He rubbed his belly wearily. “If so, it’s working. You must be very clever, my dear.” He let his eyes close, savoring the coolness of the floor on his cheekbone even as he shivered. Gods, he felt like hell. It was strange—for just a moment, he wished for the alpha. For _Geralt_. He wanted the inexplicable feeling of comfort that came of the white-haired witcher’s hand making little circles between his shoulder blades, the security of Geralt stoking the fireplace and offering Jaskier blankets and soup. Since when had an alpha made him feel _safe_? “Do you think Geralt is for real, sweetie?” he murmured. “Does he mean it when he’s nice?”

Obviously, he didn’t get an answer.

Jaskier sighed. “It would be nice if he meant it, wouldn’t it?” He smiled faintly, eyes still closed. “Maybe he won’t sell me again. He said I wasn’t his, anyway which—heh.” Bone-deep exhaustion rolled through him like a wave. “I don’t know whose I am, then.” He opened his eyes a crack. “Do you think he’s actually going to find your big sister?”

At that, nausea unrelated to morning sickness rolled in his throat, and he squeezed his eyes closed again.

“You’re right,” he whispered tightly. “Best not to think about that. I’ll just… I’ll just think about you, okay?” He traced a finger in little patterns on the fabric of his sweater—the one Geralt had given him, the one of the beautiful, night-sky blue—so that the pressure just barely brushed over his stomach. “My little one, hm? It’s going to be okay, sweetheart. I’m going to protect you.” The words felt nice to say, even though the lie rang in Jaskier’s ears. He hadn’t protected Clara. He couldn’t even protect himself.

More nausea, hot and potent. He lurched to his still-aching knees just in time to make it in the basin.

Suddenly, there was pounding on the door. Jaskier jumped, and then froze.

Geralt wasn’t here.

He was alone, unprotected, unsafe.

Who was it? Maybe he didn’t have to answer it. He could pretend he wasn’t there.

“Oi,” an annoyed voice came through the door. “Omega.”

 _Fuck_.

“I know you’re in there. ‘Fact, the whole place knows you’re in there.” The man’s tone dripped with irritation. “Can’t you stop hurling for two bloody minutes?”

Jaskier pressed his hands to his mouth. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do?

There was muffled speech outside the door. “Right—give me that fucking key.”

Key? Jaskier’s eyes were wide. They had a key? His gaze darted around frantically. Where could he hide?

Too late. The sound of a key bit into the lock. “Remind me to thank that innkeep’s daughter,” the voice said, and there was a responding whistle.

The door swung open.

Three men stood framed in the doorway. The one in front had a scraggly mop of yellow hair, and he twirled a key around his finger. The two behind him were tall and squat, respectively. They smelled like betas, except for the one in the front.

An alpha.

The yellow-haired one grinned. “There you are! You could have just answered the door, you know.”

Jaskier couldn’t seem to move. His body had paralyzed itself with rolling, electric terror.

_Where was Geralt, where was Geralt, where was Geralt—_

“So listen,” the yellow-haired one said. “Me and a few of my friends here are just trying to enjoy an afternoon with some absolutely _delightful_ company, but it’s…” His eye twitched. “It’s a _little_ hard to enjoy ourselves when all we can hear is the sound of your insides becoming your outsides. So if you want to—I don’t know—take something for that?” He leaned forward. “Or get the fuck out?”

“I—” Jaskier stammered. “I have medicine, but—”

“Great!” the man interrupted. “Where?” His eyes, scanning the room, landed on the bottle on the nightstand.

“Well—y-yes,” Jaskier managed. “But—”

“Here. Let me help you with that, don’t get up.” The blonde strode into the room, his friends still blocking the doorway. He walked over to the nightstand, took up the bottle, and then crossed over to Jaskier. “Here.” He held it out. “For the gods’ sakes, drink up.”

Jaskier opened his mouth, wishing the right words would come. Why was he chatty at all the wrong times, and then absolutely _mute_ when he had to speak up? “I—no—”

The blond rolled his eyes. “Gods. Here, you need help?” He uncorked the top and pressed the lip of the bottle to Jaskier’s mouth. He could smell the medicine, gingery and potent. “Drink. Quickly. We have things to get back to.”

Jaskier pressed his lips together firmly, shaking his head. He tried to back up.

“Oh for the love of—” The yellow-haired man looked properly angry now. “Where’s your fucking alpha? _Cooperate_. I swear, do you _want_ to keep puking?”

“No—look, I can’t—”

The man’s face twisted. “Boys, give me a hand?”

As the two men from the doorway stomped into the room, the blonde alpha gave Jaskier a push. His back hit the floor, and then the alpha was holding him down by the shoulders. “Wait!” Jaskier protested desperately. He tried to kick, but then the tall beta was pinning his legs, and the squat one was holding his wrists above his head. “Stop! Please—please, just let me go!” He was losing control of his breathing. “I can’t take it! Please!”

“Hold him,” the blonde alpha growled. With one hand, he gripped Jaskier’s jaw and levered it open.

Then he pressed the bottle of medicine to Jaskier’s lips.

Jaskier bucked under his hold, eyes huge and terrified as peppery liquid flooded his mouth. He tried to hold it there, but then the alpha was driving his thumb into the soft spot under Jaskier’s jaw, forcing him to swallow.

“Hey,” one of the betas said nervously. “Isn’t this… a little far?”

“Yeah,” the other ventured uncertainly. “His alpha’s going to kill us…”

“His alpha will fucking thank us,” the blonde replied through gritted teeth. He kept his attention on Jaskier. “Don’t stop, huh?”

Tears were rolling down Jaskier’s face and into his hair, splayed on the floor. He wasn’t supposed to drink more than a spoonful, he was going to lose the baby, _he was going to lose his baby—_

“There,” the alpha said, sounding satisfied. The bottle, now empty, was removed from Jaskier’s lips. His hand moved to Jaskier’s belly; it pressed down, massaging back and forth. Jaskier let out a sob. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? You’re gonna feel _so_ much better.” His hand kneaded Jaskier’s stomach, hot and heavy. “Don’t let it come back up, hm? Just let that soak in.” He gave one final press into Jaskier’s belly and then stood. His friends released Jaskier’s arms and legs, and Jaskier curled himself tightly onto his side. He was shaking _hard_ , terror pulsing white-hot through his nerves.

“Come on, boys,” the blonde said, a smile saturating his voice. “Let’s get back to it.”

They sauntered out of the room, and Jaskier didn’t even know if they looked back.

And then he was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should say, this fic does have a happy ending. Things will be okay, I promise. I am sorry for the wounds I inflictttttttt byeeeeee
> 
> Thank you always for your kudos and comments! Jaskier gets a hug for every one of them 😂💛😊


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovelies! I know I got to like NONE of your comments last chapter--I'm sorry, I'll get to them later this week! I read every one of them, they're beautiful. It means so much to me that y'all are getting so invested in this story.
> 
> So without further ado, the content warnings for this chapter are just a bit more vomiting. Poor Jask. Anyway, enjoy!

Geralt’s thoughts were whirling as Roach brought him back to the inn, apparently unconcerned with how little Geralt was actually steering.

_Clara might still be alive. Bartek is dead. And Jaskier is…_

_Is what?_

Geralt took a hand off the reins to press his fingers into his eyes.

 _What the fuck am I supposed to make of_ this?

He didn’t even know what Jaskier actually _was_. Or, really, if Bartek was even telling the truth. But if Bartek wasn’t lying—and if he was being honest with himself, Geralt thought the man was being truthful—then what was Geralt supposed to do?

Roach nickered, and Geralt absently patted her neck. In response, the horse stopped moving, flicking her ears in irritation.

Geralt looked up.

Oh. They were back at the inn.

He sighed heavily and moved to dismount.

As he did so, however, the inn door burst open. A slight figure in a blue sweater tripped out and collapsed to his knees next to the doorway where, as Geralt watched, he shoved his fingers down his throat. The motion was jerky and desperate.

“What the—” Geralt leapt off of Roach’s back and ran over to where Jaskier was now retching in the dirt. The omega’s eyes were wild, and his face was soaked with tears; his sweet grass and vanilla scent was twisted with terror, and also something… spicy? Like ginger, or pepper. “Jaskier!”

The omega glanced up, panic ruling his features. Then he heaved again, and the contents of his stomach splashed onto the ground.

“Jaskier! What are you _doing_?” Geralt dropped to his knees beside him.

“I have to get it out,” Jaskier panted frantically. “They made me… _hn_ —”

He retched again. And then again. And then when nothing came up at all, he reached for his mouth to make himself gag once more.

“Stop!” Geralt caught the omega’s wrist. It felt thin in his hand. “Jaskier, stop.”

“I have to get it out,” Jaskier said desperately, though he did stop, as if pinned by Geralt’s words. “I couldn’t throw up inside, they’d just come back—but I have to get it out—”

“Get what out? Jaskier—Jaskier!” Geralt took the omega’s shoulders firmly as Jaskier’s eyes grew even more distant, and gave him a little shake. “Talk to me. Please.”

After a moment of unsteady blinking, the only response Geralt got was Jaskier leaning into him.

The omega’s fingers dug into Geralt’s back as Jaskier buried his face urgently into Geralt’s chest, and Geralt, startled, acted on instinct: his arms enclosed Jaskier protectively in the embrace, drawing the omega nearer. Shielding him. “Shit,” he murmured. “What _happened_?”

Jaskier seemed unwilling to budge from Geralt’s chest. “I was nauseous,” he said faintly. “I annoyed some people. And they—” He choked, fists clutching Geralt’s shirt even more tightly. When he finished that sentence, it was in a mumble that even Geralt had trouble hearing. “They made me drink all the morning sickness medicine.”

Geralt froze. “They— _what_.”

Jaskier’s voice was shaking hard. “I don’t want to lose my baby, Geralt. I can’t. I _can’t_.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice was deadly quiet. “Who did this?”

“I came here as soon as I could get up,” Jaskier managed. It didn’t seem that he was entirely present with Geralt at that moment. “I threw up everything I could—do you think it’s gone? Did I get it out?”

Geralt glanced at the puddle of sick soaking into the ground. “I…” He looked back to Jaskier. “I think you got it.”

Jaskier went weak in Geralt’s arms. “Thank gods. Oh, thank the gods.”

After a few more moments, Geralt gently detached the omega and fetched a waterskin from Roach’s saddlebags. He uncorked it and handed it to Jaskier. “Here.”

Jaskier accepted it with trembling hands. Geralt crouched next to him as he drank.

“We can’t stay here.”

Jaskier lowered the waterskin. “Wh…what?”

Geralt gritted his teeth. “We have to leave,” he growled. Jaskier flinched at the tone of his voice, and Geralt took a deep breath and tried to moderate it—just because Jaskier instinctively sought protection when he was panicking didn’t mean Geralt could forget that alphas were the ones who had made Jaskier suffer. Geralt could more easily terrify the omega than make him feel secure. “It’s not safe here,” he said more steadily. “Not for you.” He looked away. “Also, I left Bartek’s body on the alderman’s front steps. We should really leave.”

That made Jaskier’s eyes snap to Geralt’s. “He’s dead? Bartek is dead?”

Geralt nodded. “Hmm.”

“And…” Jaskier looked like he was afraid to ask. “And Clara?”

“I know where she is.” Geralt pressed his lips together. “Or _was_ , six months ago.”

“Is she safe?” Jaskier demanded. “Where is she?”

“The next town,” Geralt answered. “Apparently Bartek sold her to a family named Kozlow.”

“Take me there,” Jaskier demanded. “Please.”

It was extraordinarily gratifying to hear the determination in the omega’s tone. His eyes were still damp, and he sounded a touch desperate, but his voice was unwavering. Geralt nodded before Jaskier could realize how assertively he’d spoken, trying to pre-empt the fear that he knew was about to seep into Jaskier’s scent. “I will,” he said. “I know you probably aren’t ready for travel, but—”

“I’m ready.” Jaskier set his jaw.

That was… far from the truth, Geralt knew. But there wasn’t much to do about it now. Perhaps Geralt should have been more patient about ending Bartek’s sorry life, and a bit more reserved in the disposal of the body, but didn’t think he’d have been able to return to Jaskier with news that the slaver was still alive.

So. Best to get out of town.

“Right.” Geralt stood and offered Jaskier his hand. After a heartbeat of hesitation, Jaskier took it and allowed Geralt to help him up. He pressed the back of a hand to his forehead as if dizzy, leaned on Geralt heavily, and took another sip from the waterskin. Geralt nudged it back at Jaskier when the omega attempted to return it. “Go ahead and finish it. You need to drink.”

Jaskier was still holding Geralt’s hand when together, they walked back into the inn. Whether for stability or because he’d simply forgotten to let go…

It was strangely nice.

Geralt forcefully tamped down that line of thinking. It was _not_ the time to notice, for instance, how Jaskier had a few constellations of freckles over his nose, or how the shade of weary violet under his eyes made the periwinkle tones shine in his irises. Or how his hair, slightly damp with sweat, fell away from his face in pretty curls.

Not the time at all. Horrible time. Never would be the time.

“Geralt,” Jaskier started quietly when they’d gotten to their room once again. He sat on the edge of the bed while Geralt stomped around packing. He never had gotten Jaskier a cloak of his own—the omega would need one, but he could use Geralt’s spare for the time. Or better, Geralt would use the spare, and Jaskier could have Geralt’s warmer one. Definitely Jaskier needed it more. “Do…” When Geralt looked over, Jaskier was looking at the floor. “Do you think my baby is okay?”

Geralt stopped his packing and winced internally. “Hmm. Which one?”

A tiny drop of blood beaded on Jaskier’s dry lip as he chewed it. “…both.”

The witcher took a long, slow breath. Then he crossed to the room and crouched by the side of the bed. “I think your unborn little one will be alright,” he said honestly. “I can’t imagine there’s anything left in your stomach right now, harmful or otherwise. As for Clara…” He bit his lip, unconsciously mirroring Jaskier’s worrying. Bartek had mentioned the Kozlows being… _not satisfied_ with their purchase. “I can’t say.” He let another breath occupy him for the span of a few long heartbeats. There was simply no good way to bring this up. “Jaskier,” he began awkwardly. “Does she look… human?”

Jaskier’s head snapped up.

“ _What?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(⊙_ʖ⊙)_/¯
> 
> Btw hot take: 7-11 brand swedish fish are indistinguishable from real swedish fish. That's the good shit.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos make me smile so much!!!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: references to past abuse

The silence that hung in the air felt… impossible. Like an iron weight on a bubble of glass, ever a breath from shattering.

Jaskier had not shattered yet.

Broken, maybe. His cracks were evident in the scars on his skin, the ones that were never going to fade, the ones that would stay with him like memory. But not yet had he fallen to pieces. Not yet was he _irreparable_.

He had hoped it wouldn’t be _Geralt_ who finally crushed him to sparkling grounds.

_Does she look… human?_

Jaskier had frozen. He realized this when Geralt’s rough fingers tentatively brushed his hand, and he jerked away as if he’d been burned.

“Jaskier,” the witcher said. Those eyes, the color of sunlight through amber, fixed on his, unblinking. Even the witcher’s eyelashes were white, Jaskier noticed distantly. Like feathers of frost. “Jaskier, are you with me?”

Jaskier blinked. Was there a correct answer in this situation? If there was, it was probably ‘yes.’ But Jaskier wasn’t sure if that answer was true.

“Fuck,” the alpha muttered, apparently to himself. “I really fucked that up.”

The window was open, just a crack. It smelled like snow outside. Jaskier had always liked the smell of snow.

“Listen,” Geralt said. “I… I know about you.”

What would Jaskier gain by making this harder? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps his life, the smell of snow, for a few more moments—his eyes flicked to the swords that Geralt had left on the table in the hurry of packing up. That was what witchers did, wasn’t it? They put those swords through monsters.

“What do you know?” he heard himself murmur. Ah. Apparently, he had chosen to make it harder.

Geralt’s eyes flicked away. “Bartek told me. When I was asking about Clara, he said that you were—”

“What?”

The witcher looked down. At Jaskier’s hands between his knees, at the bandages on the tips of his fingers. “He—” Geralt hesitated, closing his mouth and letting out a sharp little breath. Then his eyes ticked up and met Jaskier’s once more. “He didn’t tell me, Jaskier.” Those topaz eyes were intense, pinning Jaskier where he sat. As if he could have gone anywhere, anyway. “So… maybe you can.”

Jaskier stared at him. How evasive should he be? What would his answer change? He had spent his life knowing what he was supposed to be. Be quiet. Be obedient. For the gods’ sakes, stop struggling, be _still_.

But above all:

Be _human_.

He never had been.

“Jaskier?”

Geralt was waiting. Why did he expect an answer? What was he going to do with Jaskier, once he knew? Kill him? But if all it took for a witcher to deal death was inhumanity, then why hadn’t Geralt struck him down as soon as he’d gotten back from Bartek’s? Jaskier had been retching in the inn’s dead garden. It would have been so very easy. So maybe the answer mattered. Maybe there was a response that kept Jaskier alive. Kept his _children_ alive.

Once again, he startled at the witcher’s touch: Geralt had taken one of Jaskier’s hands in his. It looked small there, delicate against the witcher’s calluses. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Geralt said gruffly. “I promised, remember?”

It was as if the world had become more real at the warmth of Geralt’s touch. The clear-fog shock eddied and then scattered, and suddenly, Jaskier was _there_ again. Emotion, hot and overwhelming, crested over him. He blinked, his eyes burning. “You promised that _before_ ,” he said. He couldn’t fill in before _what_. Before Geralt knew. Before Jaskier’s secret—before his _being_ , made secret with blade and pliers—had seen the light of day.

“I kill monsters,” Geralt said. “Monsters like drowners, who eat people. Monsters like Bartek, who… well, you know what he did.” He leaned forward, still crouching by the bed, still holding Jaskier’s hand. “Done anything like that?”

Jaskier shook his head.

“Then it’s like I said.” Geralt gave Jaskier’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I will not hurt you.”

“And you… you want to know what I am.”

“If you’ll tell me.”

It had been years since Jaskier had spoken the words. He wasn’t sure he could. “I’m…” He swallowed. Licked his lips. It felt so, so dangerous to say.

But… Geralt hadn’t hurt him yet.

The words barely made a sound as they brushed past his lips. “I’m fae.”

Geralt’s golden eyes widened.

Jaskier nodded. His heart had picked up as soon as the truth had escaped his mouth, and now he could feel it beating a tattoo on the inside of his ribcage. He could feel conditioned fear flooding down to his very fingers—surely Geralt could feel them growing sweaty in his palm.

“I thought—” Geralt frowned, looking stunned. “I thought fae had wings?”

Jaskier closed his eyes.

He heard Geralt’s little intake of breath. “Oh.” The pressure on Jaskier’s hand increased slightly. “Oh, _fuck_.”

Jaskier squeezed his eyes closed harder. Memories he didn’t want were hammering on the sides of his skull. “Mm.”

“Fuck, I can’t even—that must have been—”

“Excruciating,” Jaskier murmured. With his free hand, the one Geralt did not hold, he knew he was clenching a fist. His fingertips hurt. He took a deep breath, let it out over ten heartbeats. “I don’t want to talk about it. Please.”

“Fuck,” Geralt murmured.

Jaskier opened his eyes to find the witcher looking at him with an intensity such as he hadn’t seen before. But surprisingly, new fear didn’t lance down his spine. Geralt’s expression was… protective. Concerned. “You really aren’t going to hurt me?”

“No.”

Jaskier bit his lip, taking a steadying breath. “You… asked about Clara. Earlier.”

“Hmm.” Geralt nodded. “I did.”

“And the answer is… um. No. She doesn’t, really.” He swallowed. “Look human, that is.”

Geralt’s brows knit slightly. “How so?”

Jaskier worried the seam of his pants between forefinger and thumb. “She, um.” He looked down, like he could memorize the pattern of the bedding on which he still sat. “She has wings.” He ran the tip of his tongue nervously over his lips. “You can’t tell if she’s swaddled, but it’s not good to keep them pinned all the time. So I didn’t. When I… when I had her.” His chest was tight, and it wasn’t terribly easy to breathe.

Slowly, Geralt nodded.

“Do—do you think she’s safe?”

Geralt gave Jaskier’s hand one final squeeze. “I think we should hurry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wah!
> 
> My lovelies, I'm going to be taking a super-quick little hiatus. But worry not! I'll be back by December fifth at the latest. 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos warm my soul! The alderman gets a case of horrid food poisoning for each one, and Jaskier gets a cuddle :D


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaack! I didn't get to any comments last chapter, but fear not, for I shall! I did read them all, and loved every second.
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter are vague references to blood and rape/non-con.

Jaskier made it down the stairs without needing Geralt’s help. The sense of accomplishment he felt about that was… kind of sad. Especially since Geralt had hovered next to him the entire time, and Jaskier hadn’t once released his white-knuckled grip on the railing. Still, given that he’d been an abused pile of bruises that had barely been able to stand just a few days past, he thought he could count this as a victory. Now, at least, he was an abused pile of bruises that could walk down a flight of stairs. When he’d gone to throw up in the front garden, he’d tripped down almost every step, but he supposed he’d succeeded then, too—so he was an abused pile of bruises that could walk down a flight of stairs _twice_.

A right fucking athlete, he was. Rescue-mission ready.

He leaned on the wall at the bottom of the staircase and pressed a knuckle into the crook where his nose met his brow, trying to press away a growing headache and ignore all the different ways his body hurt.

_How exactly am I supposed to make it all the way to another town?_

The answer was ready before he’d finished the thought. He’d do it because Clara was in that town. That was how. He would do anything he had to.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, interrupting his reverie. “Are you ready?”

Jaskier nodded. His hair had gotten long enough to fall into his eyes when he did. “I’m ready.”

***

Apparently, Geralt had named his horse ‘Roach.’ When Jaskier asked why, Geralt had just frowned, and Roach the horse had snorted as if offended, stamping the straw of the stable floor. Geralt busied himself with fixing his bags to Roach’s saddle. “Here,” the witcher said. He tugged a thick ball of fabric from one of the bags and handed it to Jaskier. “A cloak.”

“Oh.” Jaskier blinked, accepting it. It was heavy, and softer than he’d expected a tough, monster-killing witcher’s cloak to be. “Thank you.” He frowned. “Don’t you need one?”

“I have a spare.”

Jaskier unfolded the bundle and dropped the cloak over his shoulders. It was too long, but it blocked the chill almost immediately. It smelled like Geralt, Jaskier noticed. Smoke and forest, wild and steady. He caught himself relaxing under the scent of _alpha_ , and shook his head. “Thank you,” he said again.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted. He gave Roach’s reins a tug and led her out of her stall, and she followed obligingly. Definitely _obliging_ , Jaskier thought, watching Roach’s liquid, intelligent eyes. Not obedient. He liked this horse. “Roach is ready for you.”

Jaskier suddenly looked at Roach with a bit more trepidation. It had really just occurred to him… “Oh, gods,” he murmured. “That is _not_ going to feel good.”

Geralt grimaced. “I thought… I thought maybe you could ride side-saddle. Might be better.”

“Yeah…” Jaskier said. “Right, okay.”

“Mind if I…?”

Jaskier bit his lip and nodded. At his permission, Geralt put his hands firmly around Jaskier’s waist. He lifted him onto Roach’s back as if Jaskier weighed no more than a sack of feathers. “Ah!” Jaskier gasped. He found himself gripping Geralt’s wrists as Geralt set him down. Even if it wasn’t terribly high… well, Jaskier absolutely hated the idea of falling. A relatively new hatred.

“You’re alright. Hold the saddle horn. There you go.” Geralt stepped away, taking Roach’s reins. “How’s that?”

Jaskier adjusted himself so he felt a bit less in danger of tumbling off. “Not too bad…?”

He thought a quick look of relief passed over Geralt’s face. “Good. The saddle isn’t built for that. I was afraid it wouldn’t work.”

“Oh.” Jaskier tried for a smile. “Well, it’s better than walking. Thank you.”

Suddenly, a chill seemed to creep over the stable, and Jaskier felt himself stiffen. He looked to Geralt to see if he’d noticed too, but the witcher’s expression hadn’t changed.

“Oi!” The voice came from the doorway of the inn.

Jaskier’s stomach twisted into a curdled knot.

“Geralt,” he murmured as they both looked up. “Geralt, that’s him.” His eyes snapped to the figure slouched in the doorframe. “Fuck, that’s—”

“You!” The blonde alpha sagged in the doorway. Even from across the stable, Jaskier could smell liquor intertwining with the alpha’s own toxic reek. The blonde pointed at Geralt, swaying. “You need to…” he hiccupped. “You need t’keep your omega on…” He blinked, seeming to lose his train of thought.

“Geralt,” Jaskier hissed. He couldn’t look away from the man in the doorway. “He’s the one who made me drink…”

Geralt’s hand had been resting on Jaskier’s knee. Jaskier hadn’t even noticed until it tightened faintly.

The blonde alpha snapped his fingers. “Keep him on stronger medicine! And!” He pointed again. “And a shorter leash.” He stumbled a few steps into the stable. “He almost fucked up my afternoon, _witcher_. Me and my friends weren’t happy.” He leaned heavily on one of the stall doors. “You better do something about him.”

“Oh?” Geralt said. Jaskier heard the low edge in his voice, just _barely_ not a growl. The witcher took his hand off of Jaskier’s knee before he tightened it to a fist. Jaskier felt its loss even as his bruises were grateful.

“Mhm,” the blonde alpha said. “I got a friend says the best way to—y’know, let ‘em know they did something wrong—” he hiccupped again. “Just tie ‘im up outside for a night.”

It felt like ice had dropped into Jaskier’s blood. Tied up outside… freezing and alone, unprotected from every lustful, drunken alpha who stumbled out of a pub before the sun rose.

Sweet _fuck_.

“Have you ever done that?” he demanded quietly.

The alpha blinked. “What?”

“Have you ever punished an omega by tying them up outside?”

The blonde snorted. “Pff. Naw.” His sharp grin was creeping back over his face. “If I had an omega, I wouldn’t let some other alpha do what I could do well enough myself.”

“Jaskier?” Geralt said. His voice was low. Questioning.

Jaskier felt something inside of him go steely. “Do it.”

Geralt nodded.

Faster than Jaskier could blink, the witcher had taken the blonde alpha’s head in one callused hand and slammed it hard into the side of the stall.

The blonde alpha did not get up again.

Jaskier’s heart was racing. He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, not registering when he repeated the motion too many times. “Gods. Fuck. Is he dead?”

“No.” Geralt brushed off his hands and gave the fallen alpha a nudge with the toe of his boot. Blood had started to pool in the straw. “Would you like him to be?”

“Um.” Jaskier’s throat was dry. Did he? There was part of him that screamed _yes_. But… “No.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “No, I… I think I’d just like to leave. If that’s fine.”

Geralt wordlessly crossed to take Roach’s reins again. He put a hand on Jaskier’s shin. “Are you alright?”

Jaskier concentrated on his breathing. In. Out. Steady and steadier. “No,” he managed. “I just… I don’t want to stay here.”

“Of course.” Geralt gave Roach’s reins a tug, and the mare began to follow him out of the stable. Jaskier made sure to look when they passed the fallen alpha, the one who had nearly cost him the life of his child. He considered spitting on him, but his mouth still felt like he’d just eaten sand.

“How long until we reach the other town?” Jaskier asked. His hand was tight on the saddle horn. _Until we reach Clara?_

“A few days.” Geralt led them outside, walking easily beside Roach. The horse seemed to need only the barest guidance. “We’ll have to make camp a few times before we reach it.” He looked up, golden eyes luminescent in the chilly sun. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.” He adjusted the too-long hem of Jaskier’s cloak so that it hung around Jaskier more closely. “Warm, too.”

For as shaken as Jaskier was, and for as unbelievable as the promise sounded, Jaskier actually found that he believed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, the beginnings of trust!
> 
> My lovelies, my smol hiatus was long without you :( Your kudos and comments make my days!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh once again I'm behind on comments! But I'll get to them I promise! Thank you so much for each and every one of them, they mean so much to me.
> 
> Content warnings: references to past abuse

Even riding side-saddle, it was not hard to tell that Jaskier was uncomfortable.

They’d made it well out of town; the woods, boreal and full of conifers this far north, were all around them, and the sounds of the city had long ago faded even to Geralt’s ears. They had encountered no other travelers, and the weather had remained clear and dry, so they had been covering distance well.

That wasn’t going to last. Geralt had been aware of Jaskier’s growing discomfort an hour or so into their journey, but it hadn’t been safe to stop so close to town. He’d offered to anyway, but given their predicament, hadn’t argued as much as he should have when Jaskier had said he was fine. Now, though, with several hours of travel behind them, it was impossible to ignore that Jaskier’s faint winces had turned into suppressed whimpers each time Roach put a hoof down too hard. Jaskier hadn’t said a word in complaint, but he couldn’t keep the pain out of his eyes.

“Right,” Geralt said decisively. Roach clopped to a halt as Geralt stopped with a gentle tug on her reins. “This is far enough for today.” The woods weren’t so deep here as they could have been; it was a fine place to make camp anyway.

He heard Jaskier’s small, relieved exhalation once they weren’t moving anymore. Still, the omega looked worried. “Are you sure this is far enough?”

Geralt had a feeling that if he told Jaskier the real reason behind stopping, Jaskier would insist he was fine and that they could keep moving. “The sun is getting low,” Geralt said instead. “I think this is far enough. If anyone comes after us, I’ll handle it.”

Jaskier seemed torn between arguing and _really_ not wanting to ride a horse for another minute. “Alright,” he said finally. “Could you please, um…”

“Here.” Geralt reached up, and once again, Jaskier gripped his forearms fearfully as Geralt lowered him off of Roach’s back.

Once on his feet, he wobbled a bit before leaning on Roach’s side. “Is there anything I can help with?”

“Not that I can think of.” Geralt had already begun to busy himself with unburdening Roach of their bags.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be useless…”

“I do this alone all the time. Don’t worry.”

Jaskier limped over to the nearest tree and, grimacing, painstakingly lowered himself to a seat. He picked up a leaf from the ground and fidgeted with it. “I think I like the forest.”

Geralt frowned. “You think? Haven’t you been in a forest before?”

The omega shook his head. “No. Just cities.” He thought for a moment. “I might have been in a forest before, I suppose. I’ve travelled between a few cities in this region. But…” His lips turned slightly downward. “I was always hooded whenever I was moved to a new place. Can’t see, can’t smell. Barely hear. So I don’t think it counts.” He held the leaf up so that the fading sun shone through it. “This is my first proper time.”

Gods, that sounded positively hellish. But so much of Jaskier’s past did, and Geralt guessed that in the omega’s mind, being hooded like that barely registered as the proper horror that it was. “What about before?” Geralt asked. “Before you were sold the first time, I mean. You didn’t… live in a forest?”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, seeming to understand the question. His tone had become just a touch guarded. “No. I think most fae do? Maybe?” He shook his head. “But my family hasn’t for generations.”

Geralt was stunned. Sure, fae looked human- _ish_ —he’d only ever met Jaskier, but he still knew a bit from the bestiaries at Kaer Morhen—but they most certainly were not human. To live in cities undetected… “How?”

“Glamour,” Jaskier said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. Which perhaps it was. Geralt couldn’t say he’d actually spent too much time on the books about fae, given their rarity. “You can hide anything under a glamour.”

Finished with the bags, Geralt brushed off his hands and began to wrestle with his sleeping roll. “Magic?”

“Mhm.”

“You can do magic?”

“Er…” Jaskier picked up another leaf, twisting its stem around the first. “Well, no.” He scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Fae omegas… can’t.”

“Oh.” Geralt quashed a grain of unreasonable disappointment. Why was he disappointed? Maybe because magic could have been something over which to connect. Or maybe he’d just wanted to watch Jaskier do something breathtaking. Then he frowned. “Wait. If your family lives among humans—”

Jaskier smiled humorlessly. “Being able to glamour is a _very_ necessary skill.” He seemed to catch himself beginning to shred the leaves, and put them down. When he spoke, his voice was bitter. “Parents can’t glamour their children forever. Omegas are an enormous risk.”

Geralt imagined a thirteen-year-old Jaskier, already foggy and disoriented from his presentation, being dragged from the familiarity of his home and people by the very ones who were meant to keep him safe. Had his mother objected? Did he have siblings, cousins, friends to miss him?

Jaskier moved to sit up straighter against the tree, and winced at the movement. “Gods. I’m sore.”

“Oh. Here.” Snapping out of his thoughts, Geralt rummaged through the bags until he found the pot of ointment, which he handed to Jaskier. “I’m going to start preparing dinner, so I won’t be looking. Take care of yourself with that, and I’ll treat your back before bed.”

***

The night was cold and alive. The fire Geralt had built crackled and popped, sending sparks whirling skyward, and Jaskier sat in front of it, huddled in his borrowed cloak. “I don’t _want_ to make you sit on the ground all night,” he was arguing. “When’s the last time you actually slept?”

Geralt finished adjusting the blankets on the bedroll. “I don’t need as much sleep as you.”

“You still need _some_!”

Geralt sighed. He’d made a decent, nutritious stew with the dry rations he kept in his saddlebags, and had treated the still-healing lashes on Jaskier’s back. And now it was well and truly nighttime, complete with dropping temperature, and Jaskier was being stubborn. “Look. Jaskier. You’re sleeping on the bedroll tonight, and that is _final_.”

It was easy to tell that the omega was exhausted. His eyes were bright in the firelight, and Geralt could hear the heightened emotion in his voice as he struggled to argue with a command from an alpha. The part of Geralt that wasn’t desperately trying to get Jaskier to take care of himself was well pleased that he had the confidence to talk back. “But—”

“Jask,” Geralt pleaded. He wasn’t sure where the nickname had come from, but the omega didn’t dispute it. “Please. You’re _pregnant_. You’re still healing. You need to sleep. _Please_.”

“It’s—that’s—”

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose. “The only other option is that I sleep next to you, alright? You’re sleeping on that bedroll no matter what. I didn’t think you’d want me that close.”

Jaskier pressed his lips together. The soft planes of his face were set in warm colors by the firelight, but that didn’t hide the darkness under his eyes.

At his silence, Geralt nodded. “That’s what I th—”

“Okay.”

Geralt blinked. “What?”

“I said okay. We can share.”

“Um.” Geralt shook his head. “ _What_?”

Jaskier took a deep breath. “You…” He swallowed. “You haven’t hurt me yet. And I just…” He hugged Geralt’s cloak more tightly around him. “You’ve done so much for me. I don’t want you to just… freeze for your troubles.”

“Are you sure that you’re _comfortable_ with that?” Geralt asked. Completely disregarding any of Jaskier’s concerns about Geralt’s _troubles_ , that was the most important question.

“I—” Jaskier hesitated. “I’m trusting you.”

Irrational warmth tricked down Geralt’s spine.

“You won’t make me regret it, will you?”

Geralt took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There… there was no point in arguing anymore. “No,” he said. “Of course, I won’t.”

The omega slid into the bedroll first. He’d slipped off his boots, but he kept Geralt’s cloak tightly around him as he hunkered under the layers of thick woolen travel blankets. Geralt came in second, immediately noting the new warmth. It felt good. He couldn’t deny that.

There wasn’t much room. Geralt tried to leave an inch of space between his body and Jaskier’s, but they were close enough that he could _feel_ , rather than hear, the omega’s heart rate pick up. “Are you alright?” he murmured. His voice came out in a rumble.

“I’m—I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” This close, Jaskier’s scent was flooding Geralt’s nose. It held the faintest edge of fear, but was mostly that now-familiar fresh vanilla, summer wildflowers, and dewy stalks of meadow grass. Geralt felt his eyes sag closed. Gods, that was… heady. Why the fuck did Jaskier have to smell so good?

“Yeah,” Jaskier said. He was facing away from Geralt, his much-smaller back to Geralt’s chest. “I’m sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aNd ThErE wAs OnLy OnE bEd
> 
> Guys, I've been looking forward to this chapter for a hot minute. As always, kudos and comments warm my heart!!! <3<3<3


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: brief reference to assault

Jaskier fell asleep fast.

Geralt stayed very still, trying to maintain the minuscule space between their bodies; the omega slept with his hands tucked to his face, curled and quiet. His hair splayed over the bedroll, gentle curls shiny in the moonlight, and the sound of his breathing blended with the faint rustle of wind through the pines. He smelled sweet and wild, occupying Geralt’s consciousness with the awareness of how close he was, and his warmth, so near to Geralt’s chest, filled Geralt with a feeling he couldn’t explain.

Geralt would not do anything— _anything­_ —to jeopardize this trust Jaskier had offered him.

***

The witcher had just drifted off when Jaskier started to whimper.

Geralt opened his eyes and blinked, banishing wooziness with the immediate knowledge that something was wrong. Jaskier wasn’t moving, still pinned by the heaviness of sleep, but as Geralt propped himself on an elbow, he could see that the omega’s face was agitated. As he watched, Jaskier gasped shallowly and let out another broken, sleep-muffled cry.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said quietly. Gently, he touched Jaskier’s shoulder.

A tear ran down Jaskier’s cheek and over the bridge of his nose, shining in the starlight.

“Jask…?” Geralt ventured. Keeping his touch impossibly light, he brushed a lock of the omega’s chestnut hair back from his face.

At the touch, Jaskier rolled over.

Geralt froze as Jaskier rested his forehead against Geralt’s chest. His anxious hands found Geralt’s shirt, gathering the material loosely in his fists. With another faint moan, the omega pressed his body closer, curling against Geralt with sleepy desperation.

“Oh…kay,” Geralt whispered to nobody in particular. “Right. Okay.”

His instincts were screaming at him to hold Jaskier close— _he’s afraid, he’s having a nightmare, protect him,_ _PROTECT HIM_ —but he was terrified that Jaskier would wake up in Geralt’s hold. Geralt had promised not to violate any boundaries. Was this a boundary? Should he push Jaskier away? Enforce the space between them?

Jaskier choked on his breath, fear lacing heavily through his scent. Another cry broke shapelessly from his lips; his eyes were shut tight, tears spilling into Geralt’s shirt.

_Fuck._

Slowly, Geralt draped an arm over Jaskier’s smaller form.

Almost immediately, Jaskier stilled. Held softly in his arms, Geralt felt the omega take in a deep, slow breath, and then felt him release it. In a few moments, Jaskier’s breathing steadied altogether. His hands relaxed on Geralt’s shirt, and the fear ebbed out of his scent.

“You’re okay,” Geralt murmured. His chin met the top of Jaskier’s head; the omega’s hair was remarkably soft, even after a day of travel. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

The stars glimmered steadily above them, the vast spill of the Milky Way spreading across the sky. The forest whispered with hidden life, and in the center of the camp, the dying fire popped sparks skyward, light flickering silently over the coals.

And with Jaskier warm against his body, Geralt slept.

***

Jaskier woke slowly.

The world around him was quiet, misty and pale blue. The color of early morning, just as the sun meets the dawn horizon. Stillness hung in the air, broken only by the trills of far-off, echoing birdsong. Jaskier’s face was damp with dew, but his body was warm and heavy.

His head was full of sleep, and his nose was full of the now-familiar alpha scent of woodsmoke and forest things—leaves, cold sunlight, clear streams with beds covered in moss-blanketed stones. Geralt smelled like he _belonged_ here, in the woods.

Jaskier blinked sleepily.

Wait.

Geralt.

His eyes blearily focused on what was in front of him, almost too close to properly see. A gray shirt, perhaps once black but washed over and over again until it was worn soft and perfectly fitted. A lock of white hair tickling Jaskier’s nose. A silver pendant cast with a wolf’s head.

Geralt’s arms were around Jaskier, holding him protectively. Jaskier’s ankles were tangled with Geralt’s, and Jaskier’s forehead was pressed to Geralt’s chest like it was made to be there.

He was being held in an alpha’s embrace, softly but firmly pressed against an alpha’s body. Close enough to be pinned to the ground. Close enough to be bitten, or choked, or violated.

So why was he just looking around woozily?

Why was he so _comfortable_?

Geralt wasn’t awake yet. The witcher’s breaths were coming even slower than normal—which really was alarmingly slow, if Jaskier wanted to get analytical about it—and when Jaskier looked up, he saw Geralt’s snow-white eyelashes still resting on the plane of his cheekbone. They were long eyelashes, weren’t they? Prettier than Jaskier would have guessed, for one so… witchery.

Jaskier closed his eyes again, basking in the sensation. He had _slept_. Not the painful rest of unconsciousness or the fitful, half-fevered slumber he’d managed to catch in the inn, but real, deep _sleep_. He didn’t want to move and ruin the illusion, but his body almost didn’t hurt.

Maybe he should get up before Geralt woke. Maybe he should squirm out of the alpha’s arms, trusting history that it was the most dangerous place he could possibly be.

But he didn’t want to.

He wanted to lie here, briefly peaceful. He didn’t want to break the cocoon of warmth and silence and return to the world of fear and pain, where everything seemed like something that could hurt him, or made him remember something that had in the past.

But…

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered. The witcher stirred faintly. “Geralt, it’s morning.”

The next town couldn’t be too far. And the only thing Jaskier wanted more than peace—than finally having a respite from the world that he knew, that never stopped hurting—

Was Clara.

“Geralt.” Jaskier put a hand on Geralt’s chest. He doubted that witchers were usually this hard to wake—maybe Geralt had slept well, too. Perhaps it was the fresh air. Jaskier began to work his way out from under Geralt’s heavy arm, immediately mourning the warmth of Geralt and the blankets. He wrapped his cloak—Geralt’s cloak—tightly around himself. “Please wake up.”

The witcher stirred with a groan, and Jaskier stepped back as Geralt sat up. Geralt blinked a few times, clearing the sleep from those gold-gem eyes.

“Good morning,” Jaskier said uncertainly. Geralt was looking at him strangely, like the witcher was trying to figure out exactly what Jaskier was thinking. “How did you sleep?”

“Well,” Geralt grunted. He narrowed his eyes like he was studying Jaskier. Had something happened? Jaskier looked down at himself, trying to see if Geralt was looking at something specific, but… if he had to guess, he’d say that the witcher looked like he was trying to make sure Jaskier was alright. “And you?”

“Very well,” Jaskier replied. “Excellently, in fact.” He pushed himself slowly to his feet, wincing; the pain was better, but far from gone. And Gods, was he stiff. Horse riding might not be his cup of tea. “But we should go, right? To get to the next town?”

Geralt scrutinized him for a minute longer, and then nodded. “Yes. We can do that.”

Jaskier smiled—was it easier to smile? He felt better than he had in… fuck. In _years_. Calmer, somehow. Warmer in a way that wasn’t leaving with the chilly air. More… himself.

Whatever this feeling was… he wanted more of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No thoughts, head empty. Like, literally. My last thought went into this chapter. Got no more.
> 
> Please feel free to leave kudos or comments if you want my perpetual and undying appreciation!!!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: references to past abuse, references to past rape/non-con

Being on the road made it easy for Jaskier to be distracted. The saddle felt like fresh hell on his arse—but ah, look, crocuses on the side of the path! He felt nauseous, and he couldn’t tell if it was from the sway of Roach’s steps or from his pregnancy—but there were squirrels in the trees to catch his eye as they jumped from branch to branch. His gums hurt in a way that they hadn’t since Bartek had a pair of pliers in his mouth—but no matter, because Geralt’s hair was shiny in the sun, and the witcher’s face was stone-set even as he did nothing but amble alongside Roach.

After a while, though, even the beautiful pine-forest scenery and witchery glowering wasn’t enough to keep Jaskier’s mind off of his growing pain. “Geralt?”

“Hmm?”

“How much longer?”

The alpha thought for a moment. “We’ll probably be there by dusk. Do you need to stop?”

“No, no,” Jaskier said hurriedly. What he needed was his daughter in his arms, and his own comfort came far, far behind that need. “Just, um… wondering.” He ran his tongue through the gaps in his teeth. Gods, why _was_ that aching so much? “I’ve been wondering a few things, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm.” Jaskier looked up to the top of the pines, where the sun filtered through the needles and illuminated flecks of pollen in its glow. As cold as it was, spring was upon them. “Like…” He sighed. He had a lot of questions, in fact, but he still wasn’t sure which ones were alright to ask. Geralt had said that he wouldn’t hurt Jaskier, and the fact that he hadn’t lifted a finger even after finding out what exactly Jaskier _was_ went a long way toward supporting that. But the witcher hadn’t promised to keep Jaskier around if he became too much trouble.

Jaskier needed to be kept around. At least until he found Clara.

“Like what?” Geralt prompted after the silence dragged on too long.

Jaskier settled on what probably wasn’t too invasive of a question. He shrugged. “Tell me what it’s like to be a witcher.”

“Hmm.” Geralt seemed to think about that. “That’s hard to answer. What’s it like to be fae?”

When the question was turned on him, Jaskier could see how it was tricky. It was hard to describe what it was like to be what he was, given that he’d never had any experience being anything else. “Well,” he said slowly. “It’s usually a bit scary.”

Geralt gave a short grunt that might have been a laugh. “I’d imagine.”

“Do you like being a witcher?” Jaskier cocked his head. “People say all kinds of things about you.” The memory of Bartek’s voice, unprompted, growled in his ear: _He’s a witcher, Dandelion. You know about witchers, don’t you?_ Through the fog of pain and fever, Jaskier had been terrified. He hesitated. “It isn’t true that witchers don’t have feelings, is it?”

“No.” Geralt huffed. “It’s just… not easy to show them.”

“See, I’d guessed that.” Jaskier shook himself, banishing the memory of Bartek. “I think if you didn’t have feelings, you wouldn’t have helped me.”

“Anyone should have helped you,” Geralt muttered. “You were chained and muzzled in a slave-trader’s basement.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, my dear witcher.” Hm. The ‘dear’ part was new, wasn’t it? That had just rolled off the tongue. Geralt looked a little startled, but he didn’t say anything and so Jaskier went on. “For a few months after I was sold, I thought that way, too. That… that what was happening to me couldn’t be normal. That someone would help me.” He looked down at Geralt from atop Roach. “But nobody did.” He nudged Geralt’s arm with his foot. “Until you.”

Geralt growled quietly, and Jaskier wasn’t able to suppress the conditioned shudder that made him recoil. He hoped Geralt didn’t notice.

“That’s, um.” Jaskier swallowed. “Another thing I wondered.”

“Hmm?”

“Why _did_ you help me?” He’d long since gone through every rational scenario he could think of—maybe Geralt didn’t want to fuck or resell him until he was a little stronger, until he could survive it. Or maybe Geralt had smelled his pregnancy and just had some kind of honor-code obligation to help in that situation, and he didn’t really give a whit about Jaskier himself. But… gods. Maybe Jaskier was just desperate for someone to be kind to him, desperate enough to overlook the sheer unlikeliness of anyone just _handing out_ decency for free, because when Geralt asked his permission to help him onto a horse, or treated his wounds, or fell asleep next to him without a single finger creeping too low… it felt good.

Really good.

“Hmm,” Geralt said again. “It was the right thing to do.”

Jaskier had to swallow his disappointment. That couldn’t be the truth, or at least not all of it. “And… that’s it?”

Geralt looked up at him. “Is there an answer you’re looking for?”

Jaskier bit his lip. “I guess not.”

The witcher seemed to sense Jaskier’s shifting mood. “If I didn’t help you,” he said eventually, “no one would have.” He sighed, and it was a heavy sound. “I said ‘should’ earlier. Everybody should have helped you. But people aren’t always good at doing what they should.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “And you are?”

That had come out far more accusingly than Jaskier had intended. He grimaced, expecting Geralt to snap at him or go silent. Instead, the witcher seemed unfazed. “Not always, no. But I try.” He gave Roach’s flank an absent pat and fell silent for a few beats. “You thought I was a monster.” He didn’t make it a question.

Jaskier squirmed a little in the saddle. “Well, um… you know. With what I’d heard about witchers, and given what I _am_ , and also with what Bartek said… you know, um, when you… when we met.” He looked away. “I did, yeah.” He glanced sideways to find Geralt looking resigned.

His hand was still resting on Roach’s flank, as comfortable as an elbow propped on a best friend’s shoulder. “Most people do.”

Jaskier hesitated. “This is the part where you tell me most people are wrong, right?”

Geralt _hmm_ ’d again. “I could. Actions speak louder.”

Well. That was true. And he _had_ acted. He’d cleaned and treated the wounds on Jaskier’s beaten body. He’d burned Jaskier’s muzzle to slag. He’d seen the ruin of Jaskier’s being, and he’d treated it gently.

But almost more importantly were the ways he _hadn’t_ acted. He hadn’t… fuck. He hadn’t done so, so many things. _He hadn’t hurt him_.

“Urgh,” Jaskier moaned. He was thinking in circles, and had been since the witcher’s first kindness. The feeling, growing like a weed under the peace he’d felt waking up that morning, had only gotten stronger. “Geralt, I don’t _get_ it.”

“Get what?”

“ _Why?_ ” Jaskier shook his head before Geralt could speak. “I don’t…” Fuck, he shouldn’t really be arguing. But by the gods, his mouth had never been under control. “I don’t know of a _single time_ anyone has done something just because it’s the right thing to do. There’s always something. Always.” He was building momentum now, and it was a far from a little terrifying. “Niceness for cooperation. Food so I can last another night of whatever the hell my owner wants to do with me. Maybe a ratty blanket to have during my heat so I remember who was so fucking generous when—” He broke off raggedly, but there was something sharp and urgent in his chest that wouldn’t let him stop. How long had this been building? And why was it coming out _now_ , after he’d woken soft and safe in Geralt’s arms? Maybe that was all it took. He finally trusted Geralt enough to list all of the ways he couldn’t trust _anyone_. “You say you won’t hurt me and I _believe_ you, but—but I need to know _why_ , Geralt, because if you’re expecting something in return, I need you to tell me now so—so I know.”

Geralt stopped walking, tugging Roach to a stop as well.

Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat.

The witcher only spoke after a moment of agonizing silence. When he did, he turned to face Jaskier entirely, and his voice was quiet, low, and rough as the pebbled bank of a river. “When I saw you for the first time,” he said slowly, “I didn’t know what to feel.” His eyes didn’t so much as flick away from Jaskier’s, brilliant in the sun. “Pain for you. Hatred for the ones who’d hurt you. Sickness. Protectiveness. Fuck, you were so scared.” He took a deep breath. “Confusion, because I didn’t know why the feelings were so strong.” A few stray hairs fluttered over his forehead with the forest breeze. “I didn’t know what to feel, but I knew what to do. The only thing I was _capable_ of doing. And I did it— _am_ doing it. As best I can.”

Jaskier’s throat was tight.

“So no,” Geralt said. “I’m not waiting for anything in return. I helped because I wanted to more badly than I’d ever wanted to do anything in my life.” He fell silent, looking half-surprised at the sincerity of his own words.

“Geralt,” Jaskier managed. “Fuck, Geralt…”

Geralt didn’t seem to know quite what to do with what he’d just said. “Hmm.” He turned back to the road and gave Roach’s reins a tug. “Are you alright?”

Jaskier nodded. “That…” He exhaled shakily. This proved nothing, Geralt could be lying, it could all be a trick, but _gods_ , it didn’t feel like one. The weight that was lifting from Jaskier’s chest made him feel like he could fly, wings or no wings. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

It wasn’t possible to keep the smile from his face. He had slept well. He was on the way to find his daughter. And he had found someone who he was truly starting to believe was _good_. “For _everything_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woot!  
> That was an important conversation to properly HAVE, I would say. Actions speak louder than words, but words are nice too.  
> Btw, btw... are y'all excited for the next chapter? Y'all should be excited for the next chapter 👀
> 
> Anywayyyyyy! Kudos and comments bring me great joyyyyyyyyyy


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is really two chapters, but I decided *not* to leave y'all on a cliffhanger that would make you hate me. Instead I'll leave you on a cliffhanger that will make you hate me but like... better. ha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: extreme emotional distress

Jaskier looked like he was about to faint right off of Roach by the time they reached the town. Geralt had insisted on a break a few hours past, during which time he’d refused to let them continue until Jaskier ate something and had a quick rest, but since then, the omega had been hell-bent on pressing forward. Geralt was fairly certain that at this point, he was keeping his hand white-knuckled on the saddle horn with nothing but sheer willpower.

But after all of those grueling hours, the town was before them.

“You said the family name was Kozlow?” Jaskier asked. He’d been rubbing at his mouth for a while now, making Geralt wonder if it was hurting. He didn’t know how long it had been since Jaskier’s fangs had been pulled, but the gums had looked healed from the glances Geralt got when he spoke. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

At any rate, he nodded.

“How do we find them?” There was an edge in Jaskier’s voice.

They were drawing glances as they made their way into the town, Roach’s hooves falling on cobblestones instead of forest path, and Geralt caught a few distrustful looks aimed in his direction. The street wasn’t as busy as perhaps it would have been if the sun hadn’t been creeping lower, but in reply to Jaskier’s question, Geralt made his way over to the side of the road. A nervous-looking beta was packing up a table from which it seemed he’d been selling roasted nuts. “Good evening,” Geralt said. The beta looked deeply displeased to be spoken to, but Geralt ignored that. “I was wondering if you could give us directions.”

“There’s nothing here for you, witcher,” the man said, packing up his stall more hurriedly. “This town isn’t looking for your services.”

“I’m not looking for a job.”

“Then go.” The beta swept a few packets of hazelnuts into his knapsack. “Like I said, there’s nothing here for you.”

“I’m looking for someone.”

“I don’t think I’m being clear.” The man looked up, eyes flashing. “Your kind isn’t _welcome_ here. Leave now, before there’s trouble.”

Geralt felt himself flinch. Fucking near a century to get used to it, and that still hit him every time. He didn’t look to Jaskier, not wanting to see if the omega had noticed. “I’m looking for a family by the name of Kozlow.”

“Why?”

“That isn’t your business.”

The beta was opening his mouth to reply when Jaskier’s voice cut the air. It was colder than Geralt had known the omega could be. “They have my daughter.”

The beta man blinked, looking at Jaskier for the first time. “They what now, sweetheart?”

Jaskier glared at him, eyebrows low over those brilliant, blue-violet eyes. “They have my _daughter_.”

“I think you’ve got the wrong information, doll.” The beta glanced back to Geralt. “There’s no child at that house. The Kozlows have been trying for a baby for years; if they got one, we’d know about it.”

“Just…” Jaskier’s face was conflicted—dismay, disbelief, hope. He wasn’t giving up. “Just tell us how to find them.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

“Tell us or it’s a sword through your throat,” Geralt growled.

Sometimes, Geralt’s reputation had its perks. The beta blanched, sweat breaking out on his forehead. “Biggest house in town. Western edge. Can’t miss it.”

Neither Jaskier nor Geralt bothered to thank him as Geralt led Roach down the street.

As they neared the house, Jaskier was practically vibrating with nerves. He was still worrying at his mouth, probing his tongue through the gaps in his teeth, but he’d gone completely silent, shifting in the saddle with a nervous energy behind his eyes that set Geralt on edge.

It was an enormous property. The house itself was white stone, three stories high and situated against the heathered moor that bordered the western edge of the town; before the rolling, barren hills, the estate’s gardens flourished with trimmed hedges, graceful trees, and spring flowers. Geralt helped Jaskier off of Roach. The omega, wound so tightly with nerves, flinched at Geralt’s touch even when Geralt asked permission to guide him from the saddle. After the initial shock, however, he gripped Geralt’s arm tightly with both hands, pressing himself as close as he could. Geralt wasn’t even sure he recognized himself doing it; his eyes were wide and trained on the glass green double doors at the end of the arbor-shaded front walk. Vines, dead from the winter, trailed against Geralt’s hair as he and Jaskier approached the entrance.

Geralt knocked. By his side, still shrouded in Geralt’s cloak, Jaskier was shivering.

After a moment of stillness, footsteps tapped neatly toward them from inside the house, and then the door swung open to reveal a young man in a servant’s uniform. He looked them both over—a tall, white-haired alpha witcher, eyes slit-pupiled and leather armor scarred, supporting a slight, pretty omega who looked ready to kill a man or faint. “Ah… good evening?” He frowned, confusion and surprise in equal measures on his face. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for my baby,” Jaskier blurted. “She’s supposed to be here.”

The servant looked taken aback by the outburst. “Um.” He looked a little afraid. “I’m sorry, there’s… there’s no baby here.”

“There has to be!” Jaskier’s voice was growing frantic. “She _has_ to be here. Her—her name’s Clara, she’s eight months old—”

“I’m sorry—"

A voice cracked like a whip from inside the house, and the servant jumped. “ _What_ is the meaning of this?”

Geralt leaned around the servant to see a severe-looking woman approaching the foyer. Her posture was pin-straight, and her brown hair, complemented by a few strands of gray, was tied in a strict bun atop her head.

“I’m… not sure?” the servant said. He bowed. “Pardon me, ma’am. Shall I send them off?”

The woman approached the doorway primly, and her piercing eyes took in Geralt and Jaskier in two precise flicks. “Who are you,” she demanded, “and what are you doing here?”

“Are—are you Mrs. Kozlow?” Jaskier asked. He was shaking; Geralt put an arm over his shoulders, holding him against his body. At the woman’s curt nod, Jaskier pressed on. “You bought a baby from Bartek,” he said. His hands were still gripping at Geralt’s forearm. “The—the slave-trader. Six months ago.” His eyes were desperate. “She’s my daughter. Bartek took her from me, she’s mine. I need her, please—”

The woman’s lips had pressed into a fine line. “Ah.” Her eyes were chilly and unreadable. “I…see.” She shot a glance at the servant, who took the cue and hurried off into the house. Mrs. Kozlow turned back to the door and smoothed her skirt uncomfortably. “You are the child’s father?”

“Yes!” Hope lit up Jaskier’s face. “Yes, I am, please—”

Mrs. Kozlow’s face revealed no emotion, but Geralt thought he could see tightness around her eyes. “I’m sorry. That child is dead.”

All of the air left the room.

The growing night went perfectly still.

Against Geralt’s side, Jaskier froze. “Wh…what?”

Mrs. Kozlow brushed an invisible speck of dust from her skirt. “She is dead. She was…” A faint look of revulsion passed over the woman’s face. “She was not human.”

Against his side, Jaskier had gone stiff. Geralt could feel him trembling. “Wh…what happened to her?”

Mrs. Kozlow blinked. “Well, she was some sort of… of demon.” She looked between them again, as if trying to discern which of them had passed the child her particular flavor of inhumanity. “My… my husband gave her to the gardener to drown.”

Geralt felt his own breath seize in his chest.

Jaskier made a noise like someone had pressed a knife between his ribs. It sounded like a gasp and a cry at once, and though it was no louder than a whisper, Geralt felt it like blow to the gut.

He caught Jaskier under the arms when his knees gave out from beneath him.

The woman had the gall to look regretful. “I understand that affection blinds rationality,” she said. “I am sorry.”

“Stop talking,” Geralt snarled at her. He turned his attention to Jaskier. “Jask? Jaskier, stay with me…”

The omega’s face was locked in an expression of shock, tears beginning to run down his face even as he didn’t blink. His breathing was shallow and ragged, choked on a sob that couldn’t escape.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said quietly. He turned Jaskier to face him and guided him to his knees. Gently, he cradled the omega’s face, brushing away a tear with one rough thumb. Jaskier stared at him helplessly, stunned mute. His face was a mask of speechless anguish.

“G-Geralt—” Jaskier managed. “I—” His breath hitched, his eyes welling with more tears. “I—I can’t—”

Geralt was ready for him when he collapsed forward into Geralt’s arms, gasping with growing sobs. The sound of his voice was otherworldly when he screamed into Geralt’s chest.

It was the most heartbreaking noise that Geralt had ever heard.

It was going to haunt him.

And there was nothing Geralt could do but hold him as he wailed his grief to the darkening sky.

***

Geralt didn’t notice when Mrs. Kozlow closed the door, leaving the two of them huddled on the stoop in the growing chill.

Jaskier’s sobs hadn’t stopped, but he seemed to have exhausted himself. He was entirely limp in Geralt’s arms, lifeless except for the quaking of his cries. Stars began to reveal themselves in the sky, but they didn’t feel like the same stars that Geralt and Jaskier had slept under in the woods; those stars had been beautiful, a glittering spill of gemstones to gild the warmth that had surrounded them that night, but these stars were far away, empty, and cold.

Geralt had no idea what to do. Should they leave? Could Jaskier… could he even come back from this? Revenge seemed… hollow. It wouldn’t help. The only thing that mattered was the omega falling to pieces in Geralt’s arms, and Geralt didn’t know if it was even possible to help him come together again.

After a long while, Geralt noticed a sound from the hedge on the side of the path. It was a tentative sound, nervous and quiet, but Geralt looked up anyway, prepared to defend Jaskier. “Who’s there?” he demanded. His voice was hoarse.

The noise stopped.

Geralt scented the air, but his nose was full of Jaskier’s desolation. He stared at the place where the noise had come, but could see nothing. “Show yourself.”

A few hesitant moments later, a figure stepped out of the shrubs and onto the path.

They wore battered clothes, and their knees were stained with dried mud. A sunhat, unnecessary in the dark, hung off of the back of their neck, and a pair of sturdy gloves drooped out of one pocket. They fidgeted anxiously, staying a safe distance away.

“Who are you?” Geralt didn’t think they looked like a threat, but with Jaskier lost to the world, still quaking in his arms, he wasn’t about to take chances.

“I’m, um.” The figure sounded uncertain. “I’m the gardener.”

Geralt felt his blood grow hot. _My husband gave her to the gardener to drown._ “You.”

The gardener yelped, raising their hands in surrender. “Wait! Wait!” Their eyes were wide, Geralt could see in the dark, and their movements belied their fear. They had narrow shoulders and a delicate build, and they looked thoroughly intimidated. An omega. Geralt still couldn’t smell them over Jaskier, but he was reasonably confident.

“You’re the one who—” Geralt cut himself off, afraid of what hearing the words would do to Jaskier.

The gardener shook their head decisively. “No! No, I didn’t!”

Geralt narrowed his eyes. “It wasn’t you?”

“No, it was, but—but I didn’t!”

In Geralt’s arms, Jaskier lifted his head weakly.

“Mr. Kozlow gave me the baby,” the gardener explained rapidly. “Told me to…” They glanced back and forth. “Look, can you… can you come with me?”

“Tell me what you’re talking about,” Geralt growled.

The gardener made a little squeak at his tone. “I don’t want them to hear.”

“Tell me anyway.”

The gardener swallowed, looking around again. Their voice dropped nervously. “I… I couldn’t.” They wrung their hands, gaze still darting around. “I couldn’t… kill the baby.”

Jaskier’s breath caught unevenly. He was still shaking, but he pushed himself up enough to look at the gardener from between tear-beaded eyelashes. It sounded like his voice had been dragged on the cobblestones. “ _What?_ ”

***

Geralt supported an unsteady Jaskier as they followed the gardener off of the path and across the estate grounds. Around them in neat beds, cold-tolerant plants swayed in the night breeze, and the light from the house’s windows faded as they walked through trimmed rows of shrubbery. The gardener looked back at Jaskier with concern, and at Geralt with nervousness. “Just a little farther,” they promised. “I have to keep Thistle far from the house so that the family doesn’t hear her when she cries.”

“Thistle?” Jaskier said faintly. His voice was ragged from crying, and his face was still damp with tears. His eyes looked dull.

“Oh!” The gardener looked uncomfortable. “That’s, um. That’s what I’ve been calling her. I didn’t know her name.”

“Clara,” Jaskier said, even quieter. “Her name is Clara.”

“Clara,” the gardener said slowly. “That’s a lovely name, isn’t it? Um.” Still leading them through the gardens, they looked over their shoulder again to glance between Jaskier and Geralt. There was an air of confusion in their face. “Are you both her fathers?”

Geralt shook his head at the same time Jaskier said “Just me.”

“Oh.” The gardener fell silent for a moment. “I was wondering where she got the wings.”

“Me,” Jaskier murmured. A speck of light flickered back into his eyes. The gardener looked a little lost at his answer, but they didn’t ask any more questions.

A minute later, the shape of a shed emerged from between the shadows of two oak trees, nestled half-within a scraggly, overgrown hedge. The gardener pulled a key out of their pocket and set about unlocking the door.

“She…she’s in there?” Jaskier asked in a strangled whisper. The little building looked dilapidated and old, with boards nailed haphazardly over the windows and shingles sliding from the roof. Gray paint flaked from crooked clapboard walls.

The gardener nodded and turned the rusted doorknob.

As soon as the door was open, Geralt felt his eyes widen.

The walls were hung with spades, trowels, and gardening equipment, and there was a pile of burlap sacks in the back corner.

But that was where the little building’s resemblance to a shed ended.

The beams of the ceiling were alive with small-leafed ivy, and their pale green tendrils twirled around multicolored paper lanterns that hung from rafters and flickered with fireflies. The single room was warmed by a small cast-iron stove, and bundles of herbs and flowers, tied with bows of string, adorned the boarded windows. The whole place was small, quiet, and cast in the gently glowing shades of pale gold, lavender, and rose.

And in the corner, there was a cradle.

It had clearly been built by hand, crafted of sticks fastened together with twine, and a mobile of pinecones, polished glass, and woven-grass figures turned slightly in the draft from the open door.

The gardener stepped inside first. Jaskier broke from Geralt’s arms to follow, the shifting light from the firefly lanterns casting dancing shimmers on his hair.

The gardener reached into the cradle.

“Oh… my gods,” Jaskier whispered. “ _Clara_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for reference, I was thinking about ending the chapter after "wailed his grief to the darkening sky," because that's about how long my chapters usually are, but I figured y'all might hate me less if I... didn't do that. lol.
> 
> Anyway!!!! There sure was a lot happening in this one, hm????
> 
> Kudos and comments are my lifeblood! Peace out!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: vague references to past abuse

Soft black curls.

Skin the color of toasted hazelnuts, with blushed round cheeks.

Brilliant eyes. _Jaskier’s_ eyes, except instead of stunningly blue-violet, these shone a remarkable green against darker skin—they were the color of sunlight through oak leaves, fringed with thick eyelashes.

And…

Clara’s wings were closed, folded like a moth’s against her tiny back. Instead of being dust-gray or powdery brown, though, like any moth Geralt had ever seen, Clara’s wings _glimmered_.

Veins of shining gold spread like the branches of a tree over matte, night-black chitin. The edges were dappled with flecks of green, the same shade as Clara’s wide, curious eyes, and on her hindwings, a single, emerald eyespot shifted in the candlelight. Nearly iridescent, the eyespots flashed golden and jade as the gardener gently lifted her from her cradle.

The gardener smiled at Clara as the child cooed and reached with chubby hands for a lock of the glossy, pin-straight black hair that had slipped out of the gardener’s bun. “Hello, my little Thistle,” the gardener said softly. Then they blinked. “Er. Clara.” They looked up at Jaskier with a smile, cradling Clara gently so as not to damage her fragile wings, but their smile looked almost sad. “Your papa is here for you.”

Jaskier didn’t look like he was breathing. He had reached out a hand to the wall of the shed for support. “That’s her,” he murmured, and Geralt thought it was mostly to himself. His voice was choked. “I—I never thought—”

The gardener shot another nervous glance to Geralt—because Geralt was an alpha, or because he was a witcher, he wasn’t sure—and stepped over to Jaskier. “Do—do you want to hold her?”

Jaskier looked ready to burst into tears again, but he took a shaky breath. “Let me… I should sit down. First. I think.” He sank to a seat on the uneven floor, obviously trying to gather himself.

The gardener gently lowered Clara into Jaskier’s arms, patiently detaching her little fist from their hair.

“Clara,” Jaskier murmured under his breath. “Oh, gods, Clara…” A broken, tearful smile was spreading over his face. “You’ve grown so much.”

Clara gurgled, smiling, and reached for Jaskier’s face.

“I missed you so much, honey,” Jaskier whispered. It sounded like there was a sob waiting behind his words, but his expression was wholly concentrated on Clara. “I am so sorry, Clara, I never meant…” His voice choked. He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closing, and twin tears rolled down his cheeks. “I’m here, now. I’m here, I promise.”

Geralt didn’t want to interrupt the moment, so he looked to the gardener, who was watching the exchange and chewing on their lip. “Thank you,” Geralt said quietly. The gardener startled, but Geralt simply nodded at the cozy interior of the shed and Clara chirping happily in Jaskier’s arms. “This is… incredible.”

“Oh.” The gardener flushed faintly, rubbing the back of their neck. “I just… I had to.”

“Hmm.” Geralt looked away. This stranger of an omega had cared for Clara for six months. Kept her warm. Safe. Healthy. Had obviously _loved_ her. “We don’t even know your name.”

The gardener blinked. “Oh!” They bowed slightly at the waist, apologetic. “I’m sorry. My name is Lành.”

Jaskier looked up. His eyes were red, but his face was still helplessly happy. “Lành, I…” He stroked Clara’s hair back from her face. Her curls were tighter than his own, but just as shiny. She made a contented little noise at his touch. “I’m Jaskier. The witcher is Geralt.” He looked to Lành with an expression of unfathomable gratitude. “Thank you. So much.” He held Clara closer. “For everything you’ve done.”

Lành fidgeted awkwardly. “I just did my best.” They touched the mobile over the cradle, so clearly crafted with their own hands. “I’ve never had a baby of my own. And I couldn’t nurse her, but she likes goat’s milk. And nectar. And I make her barley meal, and…” They swallowed, seeming to center themselves. “She made it very easy. She hardly ever cries. And the ivy! The fireflies…” Lành twirled a tendril of ivy around their finger, their dark eyes and faint smile catching the light of a yellow paper lantern. “Everything here flourishes. It’s her. I’m sure of it.”

Jaskier looked at Clara with wide eyes. “Really?” he said softly, and Geralt could hear the awe in his tone.

“How did you keep her hidden all this time?” Geralt asked.

Lành shrugged modestly. “The Kozlows don’t usually wander out this far, and I made sure they never saw me coming or going from the shed. I sleep in the servant’s quarters, but, um.” They bumped their toe absently on the floor. “I don’t sleep well. So they’re used to me taking walks at night. Now instead of wandering, I check on Thistle. Clara.” They looked between Geralt and Jaskier nervously. “You won’t tell them, will you? I’d lose my job.”

Geralt shook his head. “Of course not.”

“Why do you want to work for them?” Jaskier asked concernedly. “They’re… not good people.”

“No,” Lành agreed reluctantly. “They’re not.” They were fidgeting again. “But they’re good enough to me. And I love the plants, the sunshine. Being outside.” They chewed on their lip. “I had a… a really bad alpha. Before I ran away. I made it here. Got a job.” Their eyes had grown a little shadowed. “This is better than going back.”

Jaskier’s brows lowered with worry. “Lành, are you safe?”

“I think so.” Lành absently rearranged the bedding in the cradle, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “It’s been a few years, anyway.”

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier said. The empathy was heavy in his voice. Clara’s eyelids were growing heavy, and he shifted her to one arm to rub briefly at his mouth, wincing faintly. “I, uh.” His eyes slid away. “I understand. We won’t tell. Promise.”

Lành took a deep breath. “Thank you.” They folded their hands, looking down. “It’s late. And it’s going to be hard for you to find someplace to stay.” They looked uncomfortable, glancing specifically at Geralt. “Not many places will take your kind.” They looked apologetic. “Would you stay here tonight? In the shed? You’ll be safe, and I’ll bring you blankets.” Their expression had never quite stopped being sad. “I’m sorry. I’m—I think I’m procrastinating a bit.” They smiled weakly. “I wasn’t really ready for this, you know? To… to say goodbye.”

Jaskier murmured something softly to himself.

Lành glanced to him curiously. “Hm?”

Jaskier smiled down at Clara’s sleeping face. “Clara Thistle,” he said a little louder. “I’m… I’m keeping that.” He looked up. “Geralt, do you think we could? Stay here, I mean. Like Lành said.” His smile flickered. “I… I don’t think I’m up for traveling, anyway.”

Geralt nodded. He couldn’t argue, and didn’t want to. “I’ll have to fetch Roach.”

“And I’ll go get you some bedding,” Lành added. Their face was soft. “You should have a little time alone with Clara, anyway.”

Jaskier shot them both a grateful look and pressed a kiss into his daughter’s sable curls. She smiled in her sleep, curling to her father’s chest with her tiny, cinnamon fists balled under her chin. Her wings shone softy in the gentle light.

Jaskier looked exhausted, but something in his face had changed—where there had been agitation, so deeply rooted that Geralt hadn’t even recognized it for what it was—now there was peace.

And just for that one, quiet moment, everything felt right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeeee!!! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!!! Kudos and comments are beautiful and soul-fulfillingggggg


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: references to past rape/non-con, references to past abuse

Geralt tied Roach at one of the oak trees in the shadows of the overgrown hedge, just as Lành was leaving from delivering blankets. The gardener hesitated before Roach, looking like they wanted to say something, but then swallowed hard, gave Geralt a short bow, and hurried off into the night.

Inside the shed, a thick blanket had been laid out on the floor along with a few pillows and a charming patchwork quilt. If Geralt had to guess, Làhn had made that, too. Jaskier was standing over the crib, running the back of his finger down Clara’s cheek and murmuring softly. It almost sounded like a prayer.

He looked up when Geralt came in, a tired smile flickering over his face.

Geralt hung his cloak on a peg by the door and knelt to take off his boots. He wasn’t sure what to say.

Fortunately, Jaskier filled the silence. “I never truly thought I’d find her again,” he said. His voice was still hoarse. “Not after the second month at Bartek’s.”

Geralt remembered Jaskier telling him about this. The second month was when Bartek had traded crippling isolation for more physical tortures. When he’d begun his process of _training_ , breaking the omega with whip and muzzle. When he begun to fuck Jaskier enough, continuing through at least one heat in captivity, that now Jaskier was pregnant. Geralt gritted his teeth, but did his best to keep his tone quiet. “I think Clara missed you.” He crossed the small space to stand beside Jaskier at the cradle. The bottom had been blanketed in spongy lichen, and Clara slept peacefully on her side. Geralt didn’t know if babies usually slept on their sides, but it occurred to him that he’d never seen Jaskier lie on his back, either. Even without his wings, the behavior seemed innate. “She’s beautiful.”

Jaskier smiled. “She is.”

“Do her wings…” Geralt hesitated. “Do they look like yours did?”

The omega took a deep, slow breath, and then let it out again. “They look more like my mother’s, I think,” he said finally. His voice was carefully measured. He ran his forefinger and thumb along the edge of one of Clara’s forewings, and gently unfolded it from her back. Geralt’s breath caught in his throat. Inside, the gold-on-black branching pattern was replaced by a gem-bright shade of mossy green, solid and stunning. It shimmered in the quiet light. “Hers were bold like this. Beautiful because they’re simple.” He gently let Clara’s wing fold back down. “Mine were more patterned, a little more like… what do you call it, a swallowtail?” He rubbed over his shoulder absently. His eyes had grown distant. “I miss them.”

“I can’t even imagine,” Geralt murmured.

“I don’t know how I’m going to teach her to fly.”

Geralt gently put a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “That’s a problem for a later time. And one I’m sure you’ll solve.” Jaskier let Geralt guide him to the blankets, casting one last glance at the cradle. “Are you comfortable sleeping with me again,” Geralt asked, “or should I set up my own bedroll?”

Jaskier knelt on the soft quilt. He looked completely drained, but there was a happiness in his face that Geralt hadn’t seen before.

He was beautiful.

Geralt blinked, shaking himself as Jaskier patted the quilt next to him. “You can stay here.”

They settled down in the dimness. As he had the last time, Jaskier laid down with his back to Geralt’s chest, but this time, he let his body touch Geralt’s. Warmth flooded through every one of Geralt’s veins.

For a long while, Jaskier was quiet. Geralt could hear the wind through the oak branches over them, Jaskier’s breathing, Clara’s tiny, sleeping heartbeat, and he closed his eyes.

Jaskier shifted, bringing a hand to his mouth with a soft whine.

Geralt frowned into the dark, opening his eyes again. “Are you alright?”

Jaskier nodded vaguely. “Fine.”

“Your mouth has been hurting.” Geralt didn’t make it a question.

Reluctantly, Jaskier nodded again. “I don’t know why,” he said. He shivered against Geralt’s chest. “Bartek pulled my teeth months ago. They’ve healed.”

Banishing the image of the slave-trader straddling a crying Jaskier and forcing a pair of pliers in his mouth, Geralt gave Jaskier’s arm a light squeeze. “Will you let me see?”

Timidly, Jaskier rolled over, hand covering his mouth. “It really hurts.”

Geralt nudged Jaskier’s hand out of the way. “I’ll be gentle.”

“Will you even be able to see anything?” Jaskier murmured. “It’s dark.”

“I can see fine.” Geralt pressed a thumb to Jaskier’s chin. “Open up.” With the tip of his finger, Geralt pulled Jaskier’s lip back. The first gap he checked did look a little irritated, as did the second. The third however…

Geralt turned Jaskier’s head just a little.

 _Well, how about that_.

In the gap left by Jaskier’s right upper canine, a little white nub was poking through the gums.

“Jask,” he said, moving his hand away. He couldn’t help a little chuckle. “Your fangs are coming back in.”

The omega’s eyes went wide. “ _What?_ ”

“Your fangs are coming back in.” Geralt propped himself up on an elbow, curious. “You’re surprised? Is this not a normal… fae thing?”

Jaskier looked completely startled. “I—” He blinked. “Well, I don’t know, actually!” He poked at a gap with his tongue, eyebrows still high. “I’ve never actually known anyone in my family to lose a tooth after childhood.”

“And you’ve never talked to fae beyond your family?”

“I told you, we lived in a city.”

An idea popped into Geralt’s head. “Let me see your hand.”

Jaskier offered his hand without question, still clearly stunned.

Geralt examined the tips of Jaskier’s fingers, holding Jaskier’s slender palm in his own callused one and avoiding the still-scabbed rawness encircling his wrists. When Geralt had first treated him, the flesh of Jaskier’s fingertips had been sliced nearly to the bone, and the nails themselves had been cut entirely from their beds.

Now, Geralt could see the fresh, scarring tissue at Jaskier’s fingertips, but he could also see the beginnings of nails peeking out of the cuticle.

Humans couldn’t do that. Witchers couldn’t, either. A torn-out fingernail would only grow back if something was pressed into the open cuticle to prevent it from healing closed, but Geralt hadn’t had anything that could fit that purpose when he’d bandaged Jaskier’s fingertips.

And yet here was the claw, growing back.

“Jask,” he said thoughtfully, “you’re about to be much sharper.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows lifted somehow still higher. “What?” He propped himself up. “My claws are coming back, too?”

Geralt nodded.

Jaskier’s face split into a grin. “Really?” Then he winced, hand covering his mouth again. “Ouch.”

Geralt frowned sympathetically. “I’ll find you some ice in the morning. Unless you want something now?”

“Ah! No.” Jaskier shook his head. “Please stay.” He curled into Geralt’s chest. “I… hm.”

“What is it?”

He actually felt Jaskier’s face heat up through his shirt. “I, um.” The omega sounded embarrassed, and also slightly in disbelief at his own words. “I really like touching you.”

“Hmm.” It only made sense, Geralt told himself, trying to repress the wave of pleasure that was rolling down his spine at the omega’s words. Jaskier was extraordinarily touch-starved. For an omega, _especially_ a pregnant one, lacking kindly contact with another person was its own sort of torture. Geralt had heard of unmated omegas, ones who lacked a steady source of touch, needing to ask their loved ones for hugs, cuddles, even naps in the same bed. To be denied that kind of intimacy, he understood, was a hollow sort of suffering. As bad as physical pain, but almost deeper.

So that’s all this was. Jaskier had felt only cruel or sexually demanding hands for the past seven years of his life, and he was suffering. Geralt was helping. That was all.

That was _all_.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice was small. “I’m sorry, did I—did I overstep?”

“No,” Geralt assured him quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m tired.” He could feel Jaskier’s heartbeat in his own chest, and once again, the omega’s scent was making it _extremely_ difficult to think straight. He put his arm over Jaskier’s body, letting the omega’s head settle under his chin. “Is this alright?”

Jaskier didn’t answer.

Then, after a moment of apparently fighting the urge, he nuzzled his face into Geralt’s neck.

Geralt froze.

Jaskier pressed his body flush against Geralt’s, squirming closer than he’d ever allowed himself to be, and then let out a long, contented sigh. His breath was hot. “Yeah,” the omega mumbled into Geralt’s collarbone. He’d rested his head right on the gland where Geralt knew his own scent to be the strongest, and it tickled every time Jaskier’s chest rose and fell. “This is wonderful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm!!! 
> 
> As ever, kudos and your incredible comments make me so very happy. I love hearing from you 😊😊😊


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another double-chapter update! I just felt like it 乁(ᴗ ͜ʖ ᴗ)ㄏ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll get to all of last chapter's comments later tonight or tomorrow!!! Thank y'all so much for each and every one of them, they make me so happy.
> 
> Content warnings: references to past miscarriage, references to past injury, references to past abuse, references to past rape/non-con, references to past non-con choking

The morning began with quiet knocking on the shed door.

For what felt like a long time, Jaskier didn’t register it.

He was warm. He was being held snugly against Geralt, whose touch felt like being _filled_ , and for the first time in as long as he could remember, the part of him that was always, _always_ on edge and expecting danger had fallen silent. He felt safe. He felt… whole. Could someone feel like a right mess at the same time they felt whole?

The knocking wasn’t stopping. Or maybe it hadn’t actually been going on for very long.

He blinked, full consciousness sliding back to him slowly. Woken by the soft noise, Clara began to fuss in her cradle. “G’ralt?” Jaskier mumbled. He sat up as the witcher came around, and got sleepily to his feet, wishing that the woodstove hadn’t gone out sometime during the night. He went directly for the cradle, feeling the imperative to hold his child, like he needed to verify that she was real. Clara had pushed herself to a tottery seat, and she broke into a toothless smile when she saw him, a little drop of drool hanging from her chin. Jaskier wiped it off, cooing to her as he brought her into his arms. “Who’s at the door, Geralt?” he asked, not looking away from Clara’s bright, leaf-green eyes. An unwelcome flash of nerves darted down his spine. What if the Lord and Lady of the house had found them? What if it was a stranger, attracted by the scent of omega and looking to satisfy themselves?

“It’s Lành,” Geralt said. He’d pushed himself to his feet and, yawning, dragged a hand through his long white hair. He opened the door, and Jaskier immediately shivered at the chilly morning air that breezed inside.

Lành looked tired. “Good morning,” they said, stepping inside. “Did you sleep well?”

Jaskier nodded, but frowned at Lành worriedly. Their graceful eyes were darkened with shadows beneath. “You didn’t, though.”

The gardener just shrugged. They were keeping their distance from Geralt, Jaskier noticed, though he couldn’t tell if it was on purpose. He supposed he couldn’t blame them if it was. “I couldn’t sleep. So I did a little work.” They pulled a scrap of paper out of their pocket. “Here, look.” They were closer to Geralt, but they stepped across the room to hand the parchment to Jaskier instead.

Jaskier moved Clara to one arm to take the offered paper. “What’s this?”

Lành fidgeted. “It’s every inn in town that I thought might let you have a room.” They cast a glance at Geralt. “As well as some I think you should avoid.”

Geralt inclined his head respectfully, taking the paper when Jaskier handed it to him. “Thank you.”

“Mhm.” Lành swallowed. “Do you know how long you’ll be in town?”

At that, Jaskier looked to Geralt. “I… I don’t know.” He bit his lip. “I don’t think I should be travelling much. With Clara, I mean. Right, Geralt?” When Geralt didn’t respond right away, Jaskier hurried on. “I mean, I will if we have to. Of course. I don’t want to slow you down.”

“Hmm.” Geralt finished reading the paper and tucked it into his pocket. “We’ll stay here.”

Jaskier blinked. “Really?”

“Of course. You said you shouldn’t travel.”

It was kindness like that—straightforward, easy, like the alternative hadn’t even crossed Geralt’s mind—that Jaskier was going to have trouble getting used to.

“Then…” Lành played with one of the ivies trailing from the rafters, still looking nervous. “Do you suppose I might visit every now and then?”

Geralt had already starting nodding by the time Jaskier said “Of course! Whenever you like!” He grinned, bouncing Clara gently. The fact that Lành might visit made him happier than he could explain. Other than Geralt—and for some reason, he wasn’t sure Geralt counted in quite the way he was thinking of—he hadn’t had anyone he might call a _friend_ in seven years. The prospect of making one made him feel bubbly. “I, um. I actually have another baby on the way,” he disclosed. “So I think I might not be moving around for a little while yet.”

The relief that crossed Lành’s face was incredible. “Oh, gods, that… that makes me really happy to hear. And—and congratulations!” They smiled, and this time, it was deep and genuine. “When are you due?”

Jaskier opened his mouth, and then froze. He closed it again, frowning. “Er, Geralt,” he muttered awkwardly. “What month is it?”

“Early April,” Geralt supplied.

“Right.” Jaskier counted quickly in his head, trying not to think about the confused expression on Lành’s face. People forgot the date all the time. There was no reason for Lành to assume it had anything to do with Jaskier being chained up in a basement for half a year. Jaskier’s month estimates were approximate at best—all he was sure of was that his last heat had been six weeks ago. “Then… November? Mid-November?”

“Oh, you’re hardly along at all!” Lành beamed. “Well, that’s exciting, isn’t it? I’m a little jealous.”

Jaskier laughed awkwardly. “The morning sickness isn’t all that.”

Lành chuckled. “Oh, I know.”

Before he could stop himself, Jaskier said, “you do?”

Immediately, he regretted it. Lành’s expression, which had lightened significantly on hearing that Clara would be staying in town, froze into a mask. “Oh,” they said, too lightly. “I, uh. Was pregnant. A few years ago. But it… it didn’t come to term.”

Jaskier felt horrible. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked—”

“No, no,” Lành said, still with that forced brightness. “Miscarriages, um. They happen. Very sad, but nothing you can do.” Their smile was tight. “Here,” they said, reaching into their pocket and changing the subject. They pulled out a little bottle and offered it to Jaskier. “Goat’s milk. For her breakfast.” They hesitated. “Unless you can still nurse…?”

Jaskier felt himself flush. “No,” he said uncomfortably. “It’s, uh… it’s been too long.” He shifted Clara in his arms. “I could try?”

“Can’t hurt,” Lành said. “But for now, here.”

Jaskier accepted the bottle, and Clara gurgled, reaching for it. When Jaskier put it to her mouth, she began slurping it down happily. “Thank you,” Jaskier said to Lành. He still felt bad.

Lành just nodded. “Of the places I recommended, knowing now that you’ll be staying for a while, I think you’ll have best luck with the third one I wrote down. It’s run by an old beta lady—when I deadhead in the fall, she buys the dry flowers—who rents out little rooms. They’re small, not particularly _nice_ , but you’ll be able to stay for longer than you probably would at an inn. Her husband’s an alpha, a little scary, but he’s also properly ancient.” They plucked at the hem of their shirt. “Her rates are cheap, and she doesn’t care who you are or where you come from.”

“Sounds perfect,” Jaskier said. He didn’t care if it was _nice_. So long as it was a safe enough place to take care of his baby—soon to be bab _ies_ —he would be fine. Whatever it was like, he’d had worse. “Lành, I cannot thank you enough. I mean it.” Geralt looked up from where he was folding up the quilt to nod affirmingly. “You’re welcome to come visit. Any time. In fact—” He looked to Geralt. “Once we’re settled, we’ll invite you over. Right, Geralt?”

“Hmm.” Geralt nodded again. “Of course.”

Lành’s real smile was back again. “I can’t wait.”

***

The sun was falling low in the western sky by the time they’d moved into their new lodgings, which were nothing but a single room and attached bathroom. The room had a bed, a table and chairs, a wardrobe, and a hearth; the bathroom had a wooden tub and a slender-legged, battered vanity. They’d brought Clara’s cradle at Lành’s urging, which they set by the bed, and that was all.

Jaskier slouched on the edge of the bed, exhausted. He hadn’t even had to _do_ much—Roach had done the walking, and Geralt had spoken to the old lady, paid for the room, and brought in the cradle. All Jaskier had done was feed Clara, re-learning the feel of her in his arms.

But Jaskier was wiped out. Clara was sleeping in her cradle, and Jaskier thought she probably had the right idea.

Geralt set the last bag down by the table. “I ordered a bath,” he said, brushing off his hands. “Thought that might be nice.”

That did sound nice. Jaskier was starting to think he smelled more like Roach than himself. “Thank you. That sounds lovely.”

“Hmm.” Geralt began unbuckling his leather armor. He’d gotten most of it off by the time a knock at the door signaled the arrival of the bathwater, and was down to his ordinary clothes by the time the servants trouped out with empty buckets. “Would you like to go first?”

The thought of hot water did send a delightful shiver down Jaskier’s spine, but he shook his head. Geralt had done so impossibly much for him; Jaskier could handle tepid bathwater. He wanted Geralt to have something nice. “You go ahead.”

He turned away as Geralt hesitated, clearly about to argue, but then thought better of it and began undressing. “You don’t have to look away,” Geralt said. “I’m not taking my pants off until I’m in the bathroom.”

Oh. Well, that was something of a relief, actually. Jaskier trusted Geralt, he really did, but… well, he was still an alpha. Jaskier was glad Geralt wasn’t being cavalier about undressing in front of him. He turned back around, a touch more relaxed, and then blinked.

He’d never actually seen Geralt without a shirt on.

The witcher was notably well-muscled, but Jaskier expected that from his build. What he _hadn’t_ expected—or, if he had, he just hadn’t thought about much—were the scars.

Far too many of them looked like they should have been fatal. Deep slashes. Skin that had been messily torn, rather than sliced. Very obvious bite marks from some kind of creature with a big mouth and far too many teeth.

“Oh my gods,” Jaskier murmured.

Geralt looked up. “Hmm?”

“Your—” Jaskier pointed, aghast. “Your _scars_.” His eyes were wide. “Holy _shit_ , Geralt.”

A strange, guilty look flickered over Geralt’s face, and he moved to pull his shirt back on. “I’m sorry.”

“What? No.” Jaskier shook his head. He found himself sliding off of the bed. He crossed to Geralt and tentatively touched the pad of his finger to one of the pale, twisted marks. Geralt flinched, and Jaskier realized what he was doing. “Ah!” He jumped, flitting further away. “I’m sorry!”

It was Geralt’s turn to shake his head. “You startled me. That’s all.” His golden stare turned to Jaskier searchingly. “Aren’t you afraid?”

Jaskier puffed up. “Not _everything_ scares me, you know,” he huffed. “I just… I’d seen a _few_ of your scars, and I knew you hunt monsters, but that’s… that’s a lot!”

“You’re not scared,” Geralt repeated, sounding a little stunned. “ _Really_?”

“Yes, really,” Jaskier pouted, crossing his arms. “I might not be a witcher, but I’m not exactly a stranger to this stuff.”

Geralt blinked, seeming to shake off his daze. “Right, of course. I—alright.” A small smile tugged at his lips.

Jaskier tilted his head. “Could I… maybe…” He bit his lip. “Could I ask about one of them?”

“Its story, you mean?”

Jaskier nodded.

The witcher shrugged. “Sure. Can’t promise I’ll remember it.”

Jaskier frowned in thought, and then pointed to a wide one that looked like it should have ended up with Geralt losing an arm. “How did you get that one?”

Geralt _hmm_ ed. “Manticore. Years ago.”

“That’s not a story,” Jaskier chided.

“Hmm.” Geralt touched the scar thoughtfully. “It hit with its tail first. I deflected it, but avoiding the poison meant it got its teeth into me.” He pointed to a few other scars across his abdomen. “These are from its claws. Or maybe these. I forget.”

“How did you kill it?” Jaskier tucked his knees under him, leaning forward interestedly.

“Sword.”

Jaskier sighed. “Illustrative as always.”

“Hmm.” Geralt bit is lip, looking at Jaskier carefully. “Jaskier,” he said slowly, “may I ask about one of yours?”

“One…” Jaskier swallowed, suddenly less pleased with where the conversation was going. “One of _my_ scars?”

The witcher nodded.

Jaskier took a deep breath. He supposed there were some he could talk about—Geralt had already seen the damage anyway. And some of the worst experiences hadn’t left any scars at all. “If you pick one that—that I don’t want to talk about…”

“Then don’t answer. I won’t press.”

Jaskier steeled himself. “I might not answer,” he warned. He picked at his healing cuticles. “But… okay.”

Geralt thought for a moment. “Your collarbone,” he said finally.

Instinctively, Jaskier’s fingers found the lump in the bone. “That’s not even a scar.”

Geralt shrugged.

A deep breath settled Jaskier a bit. Geralt hadn’t picked any of the worst. “Fifth owner,” he said after a moment of gathering himself. “Only one thing did it for him.” He took a deep breath, and let it out as steadily as he could. “He kept me collared. And he’d use it to drag me onto the bed, and then he’d get his hands around my throat until—” His breath hitched.

No, he didn’t like this.

The feeling of air wasn’t hitting his lungs, and the memory of the collar’s bite, of deep bruises left by his owner’s hands, were making phantom pain throb through his neck. The man hadn’t been nearly as rough as Bartek, not when it came right down to it, but at least Bartek had a vested interest in not killing his merchandise; on the other hand, Jaskier was morbidly certain Owner Number Five got off on watching the consciousness drain from Jaskier’s eyes. A shudder wracked his body. “I’m sorry, can I stop?”

Geralt’s face was carefully expressionless, but Jaskier could see the fury and protectiveness swirling behind his eyes. “Of course. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Jaskier shook his head, reminding himself he could breathe. “Don’t be sorry. I said you could.” He took a stabilizing breath. “Long and short, he broke my collarbone after having me for about a week, didn’t like me once I was broken, and sold me to someone who didn’t care. It never got a chance to heal right.” He swallowed hard. Sweat had broken out on his forehead. “Fuck.”

Geralt sat next to him on the bed, hand finding its place between Jaskier’s shoulder blades. Jaskier leaned into the alpha’s side, letting Geralt’s scent fill his head. It was even better with Geralt’s shirt and leathers no longer in the way, and Jaskier let his eyes close. “I’m sorry,” Geralt said again.

“It’s alright.” Jaskier sighed, just savoring the warmth of Geralt’s skin. “Maybe I’ll be able to talk about it someday. It’s just… there’s some horrible stuff.” He nudged his face closer to Geralt’s neck, seeking comfort. Geralt held him a little tighter. “Some really disgusting stuff. Even stuff I’m ashamed of.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know. Doesn’t change anything.”

The witcher’s hand slid gently up and down Jaskier’s scarred back, blue knit fabric pressing gently against Jaskier’s skin at its passage. “Nothing like that will ever happen again.” His voice was sincere. “I won’t let it.”

Jaskier laughed tiredly. “My dear witcher. You really are a good one, aren’t you?”

“Hmm.” Then Geralt’s brow furrowed. His hand stilled on Jaskier’s back. “Jask,” he said slowly.

Jaskier didn’t open his eyes. The feeling of Geralt next to him was a bit too distracting. “What is it?”

Geralt sounded confused. His hand slid back and forth again, but it felt less like rubbing and more like searching. It paused on either side of Jaskier’s spine. “Would—would please take off your sweater?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehe oops I actually forgot to put end comments for a second there
> 
> Not that I have much to say except thank you so much to everyone who leaves comments or kudos! And if you don't, that's fine too, I hope you're enjoying nonetheless!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BUCKLE UP, BOYS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: nightmare, depiction of panic attack/PTSD flashback, references to non-consensual body modification/violence/abuse

Jaskier blinked at the request, and Geralt felt him go stiff. “Take off… my sweater?”

Oh. “Er, sorry,” Geralt said, feeling a crease furrow between his eyebrows. “That sounded forward.”

Jaskier’s tone had grown guarded. “Just a bit, yeah!”

“I didn’t mean it that way.” Geralt frowned. “There’s something on your back. I felt it.”

“It was probably a scar, Geralt.” Jaskier took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “You scared me there for a minute.” He laughed a little. “Too used to people getting me naked.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“Hmm.” Geralt rubbed at his chin. “Would you mind if I looked, though? At your back?” At this point, he’d seen the omega’s brutalized skin enough times, treating his still-healing wounds, that he hoped Jaskier would trust him.

Fortunately, Jaskier nodded. “Alright. Then you have to go take a bath before the water gets cold.” He turned on the bed, crossing his legs so that his back was to Geralt.

Geralt tugged up the hem of Jaskier’s sweater. “I need to change these bandages,” he murmured.

Understanding, Jaskier pulled his sweater all the way over his head, bundling it into his lap with a little shiver. “Go ahead.”

“I’m just going to take them off for now. I’ll redress everything after the bath.” He found the end of the bandage and began to unwind it. The deep lashes beneath were healing well; they were definitely going to scar, adding to the brutal tapestry that was already there, but there was none of the telltale redness of infection.

The two deepest scars sat on either side of Jaskier’s spine. Ordinarily, the nearly-parallel lines were thick and pinkish-pale, a few years old but still not faded fully to white—Jaskier’s wings hadn’t simply been sliced down to the surface of his back. They’d been gouged at the root from the muscles beneath.

Geralt suppressed a shudder.

But there was something different about those scars, wasn’t there? He leaned closer, trying to figure out what he’d felt through Jaskier’s sweater.

The old wounds were raised, more so than normal scar tissue. There was something… _under_ them. Something dark in color and close to the surface, like it was going to break through. Geralt ran a thumb over one of them, frowning. Lightly, he pressed on it.

Jaskier sucked in a ragged breath as if Geralt had stabbed him. His hands fisted on his sweater, and he reactively jerked forward, away from Geralt’s touch. “Geralt!” he choked. “What the _fuck_ —”

Now Geralt was concerned. “That hurt?”

“ _Yes!_ ” Jaskier looked over his shoulder. “What the hell did you do?”

“There’s something under these scars.”

“Which scars?”

“The, um. Where your wings were.”

Jaskier swallowed, looking troubled. “What kind of something?”

“I don’t know.” Geralt looked closer at the marks. It looked like… like something growing from beneath. Like something was about to emerge from the skin, like cutting a tooth.

Oh.

 _Shit_.

“Jask,” he said. “Your teeth. Your claws.”

“What about them?”

“Well, they’re _growing back_.”

Jaskier frowned. “Yeah…?”

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Then, from Jaskier, quietly: “Oh my gods.”

Geralt carefully ghosted a finger over the scars again. “You don’t think…?”

Jaskier waved his hands. “No, no, no, no, don’t say it. Don’t say it.” He looked over his shoulder again, eyes wide. “Don’t get my hopes up. Ow, fuck.” His expression darkened. “It’s been three years. There’s no reason for them to be coming back now.”

That was true. Even if fae could regenerate body parts as fundamental as _wings_ , Geralt had no idea why that would be happening _now_ ; Bartek had finished ‘fixing up’ the omega, trying to fashion him into a human by ripping out tooth and claw, only a few months previously, but Jaskier’s wings had been taken far before then. It made more sense for the recent mutilations to recover, since a few months might have just been the time they needed to heal. _Years_ , though…

But he couldn’t deny what he was looking at.

_Incredible._

Jaskier winced. “Damn. Geralt, that really hurts.”

“Just since I touched it?”

“Well, that didn’t help.” The omega winced. “Fuck. That brings back memories.” He shook his head, turning back to face Geralt properly. “Go take a bath, okay? And then I’ll bathe, and we’ll go to bed and I won’t think about this.” There was something haunted in his eyes, like he was watching times from the past that he didn’t want to see.

Geralt knew better than to argue.

***

Jaskier had been quiet when he’d emerged from the bathroom and crawled into bed next to Geralt. “Your bandages?” Geralt murmured, but Jaskier shook his damp-haired head.

“Tomorrow.” As was becoming familiar, he curled up against Geralt’s chest, and Geralt pulled him close, being careful about where he touched Jaskier’s back.

Jaskier’s quietness was an on-edge kind of quietness, silent but not settled. Geralt was getting the feeling that he should be on the lookout for _any_ quietness; it was becoming clear that when Jaskier was comfortable, he was chatty. And the omega curled tightly against Geralt’s body, like he couldn’t get close enough to feel safe no matter how he nuzzled his head under Geralt’s chin, was anything but chatty.

Geralt closed his eyes, but didn’t drift off. He’d slept a lot more than usual over the past few days and wasn’t particularly tired, so he just lay there, preparing to meditate.

It didn’t last.

Within twenty minutes of falling asleep, Jaskier started muttering into Geralt’s collar. He shifted, agitated, and a tang of fear trickled into his scent. Geralt brushed the omega’s hair back with his fingertips as a tear slid down Jaskier’s cheek. “Jaskier?”

“Get ‘way,” Jaskier mumbled. He shivered. “Please…”

“Jask, you’re safe.” Geralt kept stroking Jaskier’s hair. “It’s alright.”

But Jaskier just whimpered, struggling against an invisible hold. “Please.” his sleepy voice broke, more tears beading under his eyelashes. “Please.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said. He gave Jaskier’s shoulder a slight shake. “Jask, wake up.”

Jaskier’s breaths were coming short and sharp, the fear in his scent beginning to curdle into panic. “Please don’t,” he sobbed quietly. “Please don’t, _please_ —”

The pain in his voice made Geralt’s heart ache. “Jaskier, wake up. Please.”

“Please,” Jaskier cried. His voice cracked into a scream. “ _NO!_ ”

He flew bolt upright in bed, panting. His eyes flicked over the dark room, the smell of terror rolling off him in powerful waves. “Jask!” Geralt sat up as well. “Are you alright?”

Jaskier didn’t answer. He was still shaking.

Geralt touched the omega’s shoulder. “Jaskier?”

With a sharp gasp, Jaskier’s gaze snapped to him. His wide eyes seemed to look through Geralt instead of at him. “No,” he whispered. “Please.”

Geralt blinked.

Jaskier scrambled away, slipping off the edge of the bed. He landed on his knees on the floor with a soft cry. Geralt hurried to slide out of bed, where he found Jaskier curled with his back against the bedpost, quaking. Geralt got to his knees beside him, reaching out in concern.

“ _No!_ ” Jaskier bared his teeth, snarling, and the ferocity was only compounded by the desperation in his eyes. “Stay away!”

“Jask, it’s me—”

“ _Back off!_ ” Jaskier was nearly hyperventilating, his breaths coming quick and short. “You can’t take them, you _can’t_ , they’re _part of me_ —please—”

“Jask, I’m not doing anything—”

“I won’t be able to _fly_ , I—I can’t—” Jaskier was hugging himself, nearly hysterical. “You _can’t_. Please, sir, you _can’t_ —”

“Oh,” Geralt breathed. “ _Fuck_.”

“I’ll do anything,” Jaskier implored. “Anything you want. And you can do anything to me, anything, just not that, sir, _please_ not that.” His words were tripping over each other, barely understandable. “Please. _Please_ , anything you want, I won’t even fight, I swear, I _swear_!”

Woken by Jaskier’s screaming, Clara started to cry. Geralt stood and backed away from Jaskier. Gently, the way he’d seen Jaskier do it, he lifted Clara from her cradle. “Shh, shh,” he soothed—at least, he hoped it was soothing. He had no idea what to do. Should he try to give Jaskier his baby, in the hopes that her presence would bring him back to reality? Or… “No,” he murmured. “He’d never hurt you on purpose, Clara Thistle. But…” The terrified set of Jaskier’s snarl was seared into his mind. Jaskier was not _present_ in that moment. He was somewhere deep in his own head, reliving a waking nightmare, and Geralt had no idea how to get him out. “ _Fuck_.”

Clara was still crying, adding to Jaskier’s broken, hacking sobs.

“This is my fault,” Geralt muttered. “I brought up his wings, I pressed on the fucking _scars_ , for fuck’s sake—”

What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t take Jaskier into his arms, couldn’t hold him close and make it better. Jaskier was curled into a ball on the floor, re-experiencing someone severing his wings from his body, and Geralt could not _make it stop_.

Jaskier’s pupils were blown wide, his breath still coming far too fast.

Geralt kept his distance, but he got to his knees again, hoping to be less intimidating. “Jaskier,” he said, doing everything he could to keep his voice steady. “Jaskier, it’s not real.”

Jaskier didn’t answer. Geralt wasn’t even sure he could see him, so full were his eyes of tears.

“Can you look around for me? Tell me where you are?”

“I—” Jaskier’s breath caught. “It’s so dark, sir—”

Geralt swore to himself. Of _course,_ it was fucking dark, Jaskier wasn’t a witcher. Still holding a crying Clara in one arm, Geralt got to his feet and crossed to his saddlebags. He had a candle in there somewhere, he knew he did—there. He brought it to the hearth and blew on the coals until they glowed again, and then held the wick to the embers. A small flame flickered to life. “Is that better? Can you see?”

Again, he received no reply but Jaskier’s desperate breathing.

“Breathe for me,” Geralt said. “Slowly. Can you do that?”

“No,” Jaskier choked.

“That’s—that’s okay. Don’t worry.” He crouched again, shushing Clara gently. “Now that you can see, can you tell me where you are?” It was good that Jaskier was answering him, right? He wasn’t begging anymore, though he didn’t seem grounded in the present.

“Your—your cellar, sir,” the omega managed.

Geralt’s heart seized. _Your cellar_.

In Jaskier’s head, Geralt was taking the role of the _motherfucker_ who had mutilated him, apparently in the half-light of some alpha’s cellar. Had anyone been able to hear him scream? Had anyone _cared_?

“No,” Geralt said brokenly. “No, not quite. That’s okay, though, just—just look around, Jask. Do you see Clara’s cradle?”

Jaskier’s breath hitched. “Clara…”

“Yes!” Geralt held Clara carefully, her small weight warm and perfect in his arms. “Yes, Clara is here. Do you see her?”

“I…” Jaskier’s voice cracked with another sob, and Geralt’s heart broke. “Please,” he pleaded helplessly. “Someone help me. _Please_.”

“I’m right here,” Geralt said. “I’m right here, Jask, and so is Clara. You’re in the apartment. You’re safe.”

Jaskier’s eyes flicked around the space, lit with the candle’s flickering glow. “The walls are wood,” he managed after a long, painful moment.

“They are,” Geralt agreed.

The omega’s wet, cornflower gaze landed on Geralt again. “You’re—” He blinked, confusion stealing over his tearstained face. “You’re not him.”

“No, I’m not.” Every one of Geralt’s instincts begged him to take Jaskier into his arms, to press the omega’s head into the crook of his neck and let his own scent draw a blanket of calm over the younger man. He fought that instinct with everything he had. If Jaskier was touched against his will right now, Geralt didn’t think any amount of protective alpha pheromones could make him feel safe. And Jaskier might spiral back down into panic. “You’re safe. I promise.”

Another raft of tears was bubbling in Jaskier’s eyes, eyes that were slowly filling with recognition. “G-Geralt…”

Something inside of Geralt broke. He felt relief flood his chest, helpless and powerful. “Yes,” he said. “ _Yes_ , it’s me.”

“And—and Clara—”

“She’s here, too.” Geralt rocked her gently; her shrieks had quieted to soft whimpering.

Jaskier touched the scuffed hardwood floor. “And—and _I’m_ here.” He looked lost. “I…” he whispered hoarsely. He got shakily to his knees. “I—I’m so sorry…”

Geralt patiently edged closer, carefully watching Jaskier’s reaction for more signs of distress at his presence. “There is nothing to be sorry for, Jaskier.”

“It was just—that nightmare, and you’re an alpha, and—I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing. I promise.”

Jaskier’s voice was trembling weakly. “I know you’re not him, I’m so sorry—” He hiccupped, wiping miserably at his eyes. “You make me feel _safe_ , I don’t know what _happened_ —”

Geralt had gotten close enough that he could carefully place Clara in Jaskier’s arms. The omega buried his nose in his daughter’s soft curls, more tears rolling quietly down his cheeks. “Jaskier,” Geralt said. He kept his voice quiet but firm. “The only thing that’s important—the _only_ thing—is that you are alright. You’re _here_.”

Jaskier nodded shakily, still holding Clara close.

“Do you want to go back to bed?”

“I—” He hesitated. “I don’t know. I feel horrible.” He sniffed. “Do… do you really think my wings are growing back?”

After a second, Geralt nodded.

Jaskier let out an unsteady breath. “And that—that I’m going to be safe? With them?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said softly. Each word that Jaskier spoke, sounding so small, twisted a knife somewhere deep in Geralt’s chest. “May I please hug you?”

Tentatively, Jaskier gave a tiny nod.

Geralt moved closer, and then he brought his arms around the omega and lightly drew him into his side. “You will be safe,” he said seriously. “Because I’m going to make _sure_ of it.” He guided Jaskier to face him, holding Clara between their bodies so that Geralt was protectively positioned around both omega and daughter. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jaskier let out a painful little laugh that sounded just a little bit like dying. “I should be happy,” he said desolately. “Everything in my life is finally okay, except… me.”

Still moving slowly, avoiding anything that might be startling, Geralt pressed his forehead to the top of Jaskier’s head. “You will be okay,” he said. “And no matter how long that takes, I’m going to take care of you. And your children.” The vows felt right, truer than any promise Geralt had ever made. “I’ll help you. However you need it.”

Jaskier’s voice barely made a sound on his overtaxed vocal cords. “I don’t deserve this.”

Geralt wasn’t sure whether Jaskier meant the pain or the decency, so he did his best to clarify. “You deserve all good things.”

“I don’t deserve _you_.”

“Hmm.” Geralt stroked the back of Jaskier’s head, feeling the silky texture of the omega’s still-damp, loose curls. “I’m a grouchy witcher who can barely carry a conversation. _Nobody_ deserves to be stuck with me.”

That got a faint, quiet chuckle. “Don’t sell yourself short, witcher.” Jaskier’s arm slipped around Geralt’s waist, holding Geralt close as Geralt did the same. A long moment passed, and then Jaskier sighed exhaustedly. “I’ll be okay.”

“You will.” Geralt’s hand didn’t still on Jaskier’s hair. “And Jaskier…”

Jaskier tilted his head, not breaking the embrace but clearly listening.

Geralt gave Jaskier a slight squeeze. “Even if it takes a long time… you know, to be okay…” He tried his best to find the right words. “Happiness isn’t reserved for the undamaged.” He lifted his forehead from Jaskier’s to look into the omega’s eyes, luminous blue even in the candlelight. “Your life will be good, even if you aren’t all healed. I’m going to make sure of it. And if you fall, or flash back, or have a bad day, or a bad week, or a bad _year_ , I will be there. With you.”

Jaskier’s eyes flicked back and forth between Geralt’s, welling with tears. But this time, he didn’t smell unhappy. “Geralt,” he croaked. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and when he opened them again, they were still fixed on Geralt. There was an emotion behind them that Geralt hadn’t seen before, something powerful and, in that moment, unimpeded. “Geralt, can… can I kiss you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...
> 
> Your kudos and comments fuel meeeeee byeeeeeee


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll answer all of last episode's comments tomorrow! I read them all, and I gotta say, it makes me so happy to hear from you guys. Thank you all so much.
> 
> Content warnings for this episode: vague reference to past abuse and rape/non-con

Geralt froze. Jaskier’s words were taking too long for him to process, like something in his brain fundamentally wouldn’t comprehend the question. “You want to—kiss me?”

Jaskier nodded, suddenly looking nervous again. “Un-unless you don’t want to, I mean. I would never—I mean, I know what it’s like to not—”

“No, no,” Geralt said hurriedly. “It’s not that.” He swallowed. “I just mean… really?”

Jaskier bit his lip, looking up at Geralt with those spellbinding eyes. His eyelashes were still damp, dark and glistening with tears, but his concentration was fixed solely on Geralt’s face. “I’m… yes? Yes. Really.”

 _He doesn’t mean it,_ Geralt’s mind supplied immediately. _He’s just had a terrible experience, and he’s stressed. You’re a witcher, Geralt. Don’t be naïve about him actually_ wanting _you._

He should stop. Make sure Jaskier wasn’t… in shock or something.

But then Jaskier’s hand was on the side of Geralt’s face.

The omega’s pinkie found the hollow behind Geralt’s jaw; his thumb rested warm over Geralt’s lips. He ran his fingers along Geralt’s jawline to lightly curl under his chin, and his thumb gently tugged at Geralt’s lower lip. “Say yes?” he asked quietly.

_Well, fuck._

The answer whispered from Geralt’s mouth before he had half a hope of stopping it, half-swallowed and hopeful. “ _Yes._ ”

A faint smile brushed over Jaskier’s face. He leaned in, still carefully cradling Clara between them.

His lips were soft, and he tasted like salt and wildflowers. He tilted his head into the kiss, and Geralt’s eyes fluttered closed.

There was nothing demanding about it. Nothing that pressed for more, or showed the telltale warnings of desperation. Jaskier clearly knew exactly what he was doing, but the moment, stretching like spun sugar, held nothing but simple desire. Jaskier’s warm, wild scent made Geralt’s head spin like he was faint, like he was drunk.

When Jaskier broke away, Geralt opened his eyes to find the omega’s eyes still closed. Jaskier took a long, slow breath and released it, and Geralt could see the tension in his shoulders melting away.

Geralt touched his own lips, still feeling almost dizzy. He had never been kissed like that before. “What… uh.” He blinked. “What was that?”

Jaskier opened his eyes, his face suffused with contentedness. “That was a kiss, Geralt.”

“Well—I know that much.” Geralt felt his face warm up. Another sensation with which he was not particularly familiar. “But—”

He was at a loss. Maybe, were he better with words, he could have described the way it had felt. Not sexual, not aggressive. Not like any kiss he’d ever paid for at a brothel, or experienced in one of his rare past one-night stands. It hadn’t felt like lust. It had felt like… like something else. Like sunshine. Like open sky and crackling hearth, and a warmth that Geralt had never felt before.

“I don’t know,” he finished lamely.

Jaskier adjusted a now-sleeping Clara Thistle in his arms. He was still kneeling on the floor, still disheveled and looking small in his too-big blue sweater, but when he tilted his head and gave Geralt another perfect smile, Geralt felt his breath catch in his chest. “I’m not sure when I started wanting to do that,” Jaskier said quietly. Clara stirred sleepily, and he stroked her hair away from her tiny face. “Kiss you, I mean.”

“It wasn’t… it wasn’t just panic?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Geralt, when I panic, I do not want to kiss people. Especially not alphas.”

“But you had just—”

“I know _I had just_.” He sighed, getting slowly to his feet and padding over to Clara’s cradle. He moved ever so slightly stiffly, and Geralt made a mental note to check later whether Jaskier had re-opened any injuries. At the very least, his knees probably weren’t happy with landing so roughly on the floor after he had tumbled out of bed. “It wasn’t a reaction. Not to that.” He lowered Clara down, pressing a light kiss to her forehead before straightening back up and wrapping his arms around himself. “It’s just… you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Why do you look so surprised?” Jaskier sat down on the edge of the bed. He flexed his hands and dropped them onto his knees. “I should be the one who’s surprised.”

Geralt gave Jaskier a confused look.

The omega let out his breath. “I just mean…” He hesitated. “You paused. When I asked to kiss you.”

“I wanted to make sure you were alright,” Geralt said. “That… that you meant it.”

Jaskier nodded thoughtfully. “When I asked, you did want to say yes, didn’t you?”

“Hmm.” Geralt could still taste Jaskier lingering on his lips. He couldn’t deny that it made him crave more. Just another touch. “I did.”

“Right.” Jaskier rubbed absently at his knees. “But you hesitated. Because you wanted to make sure I’m okay. So you see me as a person.”

“Of course, I do,” Geralt said. It came out a bit bluntly, but how was he supposed to react to that? “What else am I supposed to see you as?”

“Well, that’s—that’s the thing, right there.” Jaskier tapped his fingers on his knees. “If you just saw me as… as a _hole_ , you know, then you wouldn’t really care if I was okay, would you? So long as I _worked_.” Jaskier shook his head and hurried on. “But you see me as a person. Which means that you see _all this_. You see _me_.” He gestured to himself, averting his eyes. “You see an omega who’s already been had by so many people that he doesn’t even remember all the times, who comes with a child that isn’t yours, who’s pregnant with another one from a different alpha who’s _also_ not you, who’s got so many disgusting scars that quite frankly, it’s impossible to keep count, and who every now and then panics so hard he doesn’t even _recognize_ you. And you _still_ want to kiss me. And you still _pause_. To make sure I’m okay.” He inhaled, shoulders rising. His gaze, which had dropped to his hands, flicked up to Geralt. “That should surprise me, Geralt.” He let his breath out all at once. “But it doesn't. Because it's _you_.”

Geralt slowly moved to the edge of the bed next to Jaskier, folding his hands in his lap. “You should know,” he said, voice low. “That, um. That being accepted as a person is… is a very low bar.”

Jaskier sighed, waving a hand. “I know that. It’s a very _important_ bar, but I know that.”

“Then—”

Jaskier turned on him, eyes suddenly bright. “It’s not just that, Geralt.” He sounded a touch frustrated. “It’s—fuck. It’s the way you get all sweet when you talk to Roach. And the way you move your hands when you’re cleaning your swords, like you don’t even have to think about it. And—and the way you _hmm_ when you don’t know what to say, and the way that even though you never seem to know what to say, you still say all of the right things.” He was speaking in hushed tones whose softness did nothing to mask the emotion behind them. “It’s every time you call me ‘Jask.’ And how you get a little crease right at the top of your nose when you’re thinking. It’s—” His voice broke. It fell quieter. “It’s the way you watch the world all warily, but you look at me like I’m beautiful.”

Geralt was speechless. Not even a _hmm_. Nobody had ever said anything like that to him before. Never.

“So, yeah,” Jaskier finished meekly. “It’s just… you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jask: I just think you're neat  
> Geralt: [surprised pikachu]
> 
> Anyway! Hope the kiss didn't disappoint, hm?? 
> 
> Thank you, as always, for all your kudos and comments! If you celebrated Christmas this past Friday, I hope you had a lovely one, and I wish everyone a happy upcoming New Year!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: mild anxiety attack  
> Also also!!! Please read my author's note at the bottom! <3

_It’s just… you._

The words had been echoing around Geralt’s head for the past three days. And for the past three days, he’d been quietly berating himself for how he’d responded.

Because he… hadn’t.

He’d had no idea what to say, and so he hadn’t said anything. He’d just let the words wash over him, relishing in the strange warmth they carried. And finally, Jaskier had chuckled—had it been uncomfortably? In Geralt’s memory, it was—and suggested that they both just go to bed. Which they had. The omega had curled into Geralt’s chest, and then he had fallen asleep. But Geralt had not slept. For the next two nights.

And now he was cleaning his armor in the misty morning light while he waited for Jaskier to finish up in the bathroom. Jaskier was quietly humming to himself while he bathed, and Geralt found himself nodding slightly to the tune. He hadn’t heard Jaskier hum before. It was nice. And he was fairly sure, not that he could be a good judge, that Jaskier had a lovely voice.

That morning had started off a little roughly, with Jaskier’s morning sickness making another appearance; the omega had woken early to roll out of bed and make an unsteady beeline for the wooden pail that sat by the fireplace to hold ash sweepings. He’d thrown up three times, cursing weakly under his breath between retches while Geralt—now cautious of touching anywhere near the omega’s budding wings—rubbed the small of his back. But Jaskier’s mood had elevated with hot water and soap, enough that Geralt was now listening to him hum through the bathroom door.

Clara was gurgling happily to herself, sitting up in her cradle and batting with chubby fists at the mobile that Lành had made; the other omega had visited the day before to say hello to Clara and bring some other supplies around. They hadn’t been able to stay long, but it had been wonderful to see Jaskier smile at their presence. Geralt wondered when the last time was that Jaskier had actually had a friend.

Was _Geralt_ Jaskier’s friend?

The thought made him pause. Were they _friends_? Did friends kiss?

He didn’t think so.

Of course, he wasn’t sure where that left them.

Setting aside his armor aside with a sigh, he walked over to Clara’s cradle. She smiled a beaming, toothless smile and made a happy coo when he crouched next to her. “Hello, Clara Thistle.”

She reached for him, fussing.

“Oh, all right.” As gently as he could, he picked her up, holding her to his chest with a hand behind her and the other under her tiny bottom. His sword- callused palm covered her entire back. She immediately latched onto his hair, babbling with satisfaction. “Ouch. Okay.” He bounced her gently, not sure where the instinct came from, but she seemed to like it. Her small wings felt smooth under his callused palm, cool and slightly powdery. “You’re not hungry, are you?”

Jaskier had been trying to nurse her for the past few days, but to no avail. It was possible, he’d said, for him to regain the ability, but it was going to take some time. Perhaps even more time than it would have normally, since he was still malnourished—though it was getting better—and his body was still healing. It was obvious to Geralt that he was frustrated, and also that he felt guilty. The omega hid it well, but not well enough.

Geralt had tried to convince him that it wasn’t a failure that he couldn’t feed Clara himself. She really did like goat’s milk, and together, they’d discovered that she was quite fond of mashed peas. But Jaskier had just nodded, flashing Geralt a smile that Geralt knew was forced, and Geralt had dropped it.

Aside from that, though… gods, it was a wonder how Jaskier transformed around his baby. The omega practically glowed at her smile, when he held her in his arms, when she held his finger in her tiny fist.

It was beautiful.

The bathroom door clicked, and Jaskier peeked out, wrapped in a towel. When he saw Clara in Geralt’s arms, he smiled and padded over, leaving a trail of wet footprints. “Hey.” He gave Clara’s foot a little shake between his fingers, making her giggle. Holding the towel closely, Jaskier collected his clothes from the bed, gave Clara a kiss, and retreated back into the bathroom to change. “Are we still going out today?” his voice came from past the door.

“I planned on it.” Geralt adjusted his hold on Clara. He wanted to get Jaskier some additional clothes, and anything Clara might need. Jaskier’s experience with markets, Geralt had learned, was extremely limited; apparently, he’d stayed largely in his family’s estate before he was thirteen, and after that, one of his owners had brought him along a few times, but that was it. Geralt knew there would be alphas around, and also that Jaskier still smelled unclaimed. He didn’t anticipate any trouble, not with his own alpha witcher self around, but he wasn’t sure how Jaskier would feel about the inevitable attention. “You don’t have to come, if you don’t want to.”

“You’ll be with me,” Jaskier said after a moment. “It’ll be fine.”

“Hmm.”

“And.” The door opened a crack, and Jaskier’s head popped out. “You’re already paying for everything. Which I already feel bad about. So the least I can do is not make you run errands alone.”

That reminded Geralt of something he’d been meaning to mention since he’d paid for the apartment. “Speaking of paying…”

A brief look of alarm passed over Jaskier’s face, and Geralt hurried on quickly.

“Speaking of paying, I’m going to need to take a contract soon.” He tried to shift Clara to his other side, but gave up when she did her best to take his hair with her.

Jaskier still looked nervous. “Is that… bad?”

Geralt shook his head. “No. We have enough for a little while. But I’d rather not wait until things were urgent.”

“Right,” Jaskier said. “Yeah, of course.” He bit at one of his healing cuticles, the other hand still holding the door mostly closed. “That means you’re going to have to leave, right?”

“Just for a few days.”

Jaskier winced when his worrying drew a drop of blood from his fingertip. He dropped his hand from his mouth. “Just a few days,” he repeated quietly.

Geralt nodded.

Jaskier took a deep breath and then nodded himself, putting on a smile like a shield. “Right. That’s fine. Great, actually. That’s…” His eyes betrayed the truth behind his smile. “Excuse me.” He vanished back into the bathroom.

Geralt frowned and walked quickly to the door. “Jask? Are you alright?”

“Fine!” Jaskier’s voice came, too brightly. “Just getting dressed!”

Geralt listened for a moment, but all he heard was Jaskier’s breathing. It was coming a little too quickly. “No, you’re not.”

Jaskier swore shakily. “Gods-damn witcher hearing,” he laughed humorlessly. “Okay, I’m—I’m not. I’m actually—I might be having a tiny little meltdown.”

“Can I come in?”

“I’m fine, really.”

“Your heart’s racing.”

“Fuck, you can hear _that_?” Jaskier’s breath hitched, and then there was some rustling. “Okay. Okay, I’ve got pants on.”

Taking it as permission, Geralt opened the door.

It was still steamy in the bathroom, and it smelled nicely of soap. Jaskier was standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, looking just slightly pale. “I’m really fine,” he said as soon as Geralt came in. “Honest. It’s just a little one. Tiny little one.”

“Hmm.” Geralt crossed the room in two strides. Still holding Clara, he put an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders. “Still.” He didn’t figure a bit of affection could hurt, even if Jaskier really was fine. “You know I’m going to come back, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Jaskier said breathlessly. “Heh.”

“What is it?”

“It’s just—hah.” Jaskier buried his face under Geralt’s collarbone, which was as high as he could comfortably reach. “I didn’t realize _abandonment_ was one of my many fears.”

Geralt thought of what Jaskier told him about being ejected from his family, sent away from the only place he could have called home. “Hmm. It makes sense, I think.” The warmth of Jaskier against his side felt wonderful, and so too did the fact that the omega’s faint fear-scent was ebbing away. “I’m not going to abandon you.”

“Yeah.” Jaskier leaned back, smiling when he noticed Clara’s hand in Geralt’s hair. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello, fair readers! 
> 
> Hopefully you enjoyed this chapter, and my sketch of our dear little bean. I'm just popping in here to make an ANNOUNCEMENT!
> 
> To celebrate the end of 2020, I'm going to write a series of one-shots to supplement Topaz and Cornflower. The main fic will continue on its normal update schedule (or lack thereof, lol), but here's the fun bit: I want YOU to give me the topics for the one-shots! Anything you want me to write with Jask and Geralt, drop it in the comments. I'm going to pick a neat little selection of your suggestions, and you'll be credited for your ideas.
> 
> Tl;dr:  
> Give me one-shot suggestions!
> 
> Thank y'all so much for sticking with me, for your amazing comments and support, and most importantly, for enjoying the story! I'm so excited to keep unfolding it with you. 
> 
> Happy New Year!


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: vague reference to past injury, some made-up Ye Olde Englishe that may cause distress to history majors

The morning was fresh and dewy, and the market’s stalls were wreathed in early mist, already bustling with life. Jaskier had fashioned a sling for Clara out of one of Geralt’s shirts, and she was currently dozing against his chest. Jaskier had a palm on her covered back, and with the other hand, he held Geralt’s.

“So!” Jaskier said. He looked a little nervous, but mostly curious. Perhaps even a little excited. “Where to first?”

“Hmm.” Geralt was really only marginally more familiar with this market than Jaskier, by dint of having taken a few trips to get food and goat’s milk. Still, he had a decent idea of where certain shops were. He also had one specific item that he was looking to buy for Jaskier, but he wanted it to be a surprise. So he started simple. “How about a tailor?”

Jaskier nodded with a smile, still looking around at everything. “Sounds good to me.”

It didn’t take long to find the tailor’s shop, a narrow little building nestled in among the rest. When Geralt pushed the door open to the chime of a little bell, the strongest scent that rolled out was that of a beta. Geralt was quietly relieved.

Immediately upon entry, Jaskier’s eyes went wide.

Bolts of fabric lined the walls. From a patterned yellow that reminded Geralt of wildflowers to a rich, garnet red, the shop was packed with so many kinds of cloth that Geralt had no idea how anyone could ever choose one over another. Jaskier quickly drifted to one of the walls to run his hand over a bolt of sunrise-pink muslin. He trailed his fingers across the three bolts next to it, too. “Wow.”

The sound of a door opening came from the rear of the shop, and a short, roundish man emerged from a back room. The smile on his face faltered at the sight of Geralt, replaced by nervousness. He cleared his throat. “May—may I help you, sir?”

Geralt felt himself relax a little. The man seemed a touch fearful, but not hostile. Geralt was used to both, but one was certainly easier to deal with than the other. “I’m here to buy new clothes for my companion.” He gestured to Jaskier, who turned from the wall of fabrics to smile at the tailor and offer a wave.

“How do you do,” Jaskier greeted brightly.

The shopkeeper blinked. “I’m well,” he answered, apparently moved by habit. “And yourself?”

Jaskier grinned, and Geralt’s heart skipped a beat. “Wonderful, actually. Your shop is lovely.”

“Oh!” A faint, confused pinkness rose in the beta’s cheeks. “Well, that’s very nice of you.” He glanced to Geralt, and then back to Jaskier before addressing Jaskier first. “You’re looking for clothes?”

Jaskier nodded. “Er… perhaps a chemise? And doublet?” He looked to Geralt, as if afraid that was too much to ask.

“Two,” Geralt said with a nod. “Two of each.” Jaskier should have nice clothes, shouldn’t he?

At that, the tailor’s wariness quickly began giving way to a jollier attitude. “Two chemises and two doublets? I can do that, certainly, certainly.” The beta bustled over to Jaskier and chivalrously offered his hand with a little bow. “My dear, may I take your measurements?”

Jaskier obliged, seeming pleased with the politesse. He unfastened Clara’s sling to hand her carefully to Geralt before letting the tailor lead him to a little platform in the center of the shop. “I think it’s alright if everything is a little big,” he said, plucking at the hem of his oversized sweater. “I’m not showing yet, but I will be before long…”

The beta smiled warmly. “Pregnant, are you? That’s a beautiful thing, beautiful thing… don’t fret, my dear, I’ve been in this business for a long time, as was my father, and his mother. I know just what to do.” He hummed as he pulled a tape from his pocket and began taking Jaskier’s measurements, directing the omega when to hold out his arms, when to turn. Geralt did his best to quash the irrational jealousy that arose every time the tailor said ‘my dear.’

Shortly, the man tucked his tape back into his pocket.

“Alright, my dear, feel free to browse the shop. When you’ve found fabrics you like, just have your alpha bring them to the front.” He winked. “It’s wonderful to have someone big enough to carry your heavy things, isn’t it?”

Jaskier laughed a little awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head. “Ah… yeah. For sure.”

While the tailor hustled to be back of the shop to get out of their way, Jaskier crossed over to Geralt. There was a touch of blush riding high in his cheeks, and he busied himself with reclaiming the snoozing Clara’s sling instead of making eye contact with Geralt.

“Do any of these look nice to you?” Geralt said, running his thumb over one of the bolts. He hesitated. “I really will carry them for you, of course.”

Jaskier’s blush deepened. “Thank you,” he said with a funny smile. “Really.” He turned to the fabric, seemingly entranced by the variety. “Geralt, _look_ at all of these.”

“Hmm.” Geralt did. “There are a lot.”

“I like this one,” Jaskier said, reaching up to tap the bottom of one on a higher shelf. It had a rich sea green pattern over black. “But maybe it’s too busy?” Before Geralt could contribute an opinion—not that he actually had one—Jaskier had already moved on. He ran the edge of a sky-blue and silver brocade between his fingers. “Or maybe this one. This one’s _pretty_. What do you think?”

This time, Geralt didn’t bother trying to compose a reply.

Jaskier flitted from shelf to shelf, eyes alight with all of the colors, the patterns, the textures. “This one’s so _smooth_. Oh, it must be silk. My mother had a silk shawl, did I ever tell you that? I’m not sure why I would have told you that. But she did. It was orange—like that orange, up there, but not nearly so pretty. Oh, Geralt, look at this one! It has flowers on it.”

Geralt just smiled as Jaskier collected a number of fabrics he was partial to. It was incredible to see him like this; Geralt didn’t think he’d seen Jaskier so animated in a long time. Or maybe ever. Clearly, he needed to get out more, see things, meet people. He was a social butterfly.

Geralt chuckled internally at his own horrible joke.

Finally, Jaskier narrowed down his choices. True to his word, Geralt carried them to the counter: a bolt of the sky-blue brocade, one of a deep, wine-colored velvet, and two of linen in different pastels for the chemises. He himself had even selected a slimmer bolt of golden cloth to accent the velvet, a choice which, according to Jaskier, was very artistic and praiseworthy. Whether or not this was true, Geralt was happy to hear Jaskier speak so enthusiastically.

The tailor complimented their choices, and informed them that he’d have the garments ready in two weeks. They left the shop to find that the morning mist had cleared, and a cheerful sun was shining over the street. It was the warmest day of the spring thus far—meaning only that there hadn’t been frost that morning—and the sun’s rays were pleasant on Geralt’s face. Jaskier, too, seemed to bask in it. “Gods,” he sighed. “It’s beautiful out.” He linked his arm with Geralt’s, seemingly without thinking. “You don’t think the fabric I chose will be too gaudy, do you?”

Geralt just looked at Jaskier, at the sunlight making copper and gold tones shine in his hair. “I don’t think there are any clothes that can make you look bad.”

Jaskier’s face broke into a beaming smile. “Geralt… I was really worried about whether I’d attract too much attention, but you went and made it sweet.”

“Hmm.” Geralt scanned the street, seeking a distraction from the heat rising in his face. “I think everything will be fine. There are plenty of people wearing nice clothing.” His eyes caught on a shop down the road—it looked like a pawn shop. Pawn shops promised to be full of interesting things; perhaps he could find what he was looking for without overtly giving away his quest. “Come on. Over here.”

Jaskier obligingly followed, still holding onto Geralt’s arm.

The pawn shop was a little dark, and it smelled of so many different people that Geralt couldn’t identify one scent as belonging to the owner. “A pawn shop?” Jaskier said curiously. “I’ve never been in a pawn shop.” Unlike at the tailor’s, he didn’t seem comfortable letting go of Geralt to wander on his own. He kept a hand protectively over Clara in her sling, staying close but looking around with intrigue. He admired a deck of gold-embossed playing cards with vague fascination. “There are so many… things.”

“There are a lot of things,” Geralt agreed, a touch distractedly. He was scanning what he could see of the shop, trying to see if they had what he was looking for. “They buy things. They sell things. Many things.”

Jaskier laughed quietly. His curiosity was apparently overwhelming his nervousness, because he broke off from Geralt’s arm to hover a few feet away and look more closely at some of the goods on a nearby shelf. “They have books.”

“Indeed.”

While Jaskier explored that, Geralt leaned around the first aisle. There didn’t seem to be much in the way of an organization system, and the shelves were packed with bric-a-brac. Plenty of it was junk—a broken eyeglass, torn maps of places whose borders were all wrong, a sword with so much rust that Geralt doubted it could cleave soft cheese—but some was interesting, too. He picked up a thick, leather-bound tome with _A Whole and True Bestiary of Ev’ry Creature_ written boldly on the cover. He flipped through the pages with some amusement—this was not one of the bestiaries they possessed at Kaer Morhen, and it was easy to see why. The book’s drawing of a cockatrice looked something like a spider that had fucked a goose. Out of curiosity, he flipped until he found the page labelled ‘ _On Faerys, and Fae Magicks._ ’

To his surprise, he found a startlingly accurate drawing of a woman with broad, butterfly-like wings, the colorful pigment faded but carefully applied to the page. Her fingertips ended in delicate claws, and her inked lip was curled in a snarl that revealed sharp teeth.

 _The Faery is a moste devious of creatures_ , the manuscript read. _Be cautious of theire witte, and theire beauty._

Geralt read on, still ready to be amused by some great inaccuracy. Nothing so far contradicted his faint recollections of what he’d read in more trustworthy books, but given the looks of rest of this bestiary’s entries...

The next line, however, made him pause.

 _Only injurie and rowan Poison may harme a Faery,_ he read _. If an Injurie is cast by iron, it will not heal for many turnings of the Moon, but beware of injurie from lesser Mettels—for a faery can heal any Wounde which dost not theire Lyfe end. Faerys die not from Illnesse, nore from Age._

Geralt’s eyes traced the final line one more time, his breath paused in his chest.

_Faerys die not from Illnesse, nore from Age._

Wait a minute.

He read the paragraph again. _All wounds heal, and iron makes them heal slowly._ That was correct, it seemed, if Jaskier’s claws, teeth, and wings were any indication. Could the part about iron perhaps explain why his wings were coming back only after so long? Maybe it couldn’t explain that _entirely_ —the timing still did seem a little odd—but it could go a long way toward making more sense, if they’d been cut out with an iron knife. The illustration was accurate, too. He couldn’t speak to the line about deviousness—he hadn’t _seen_ Jaskier behave particularly suspiciously—but the beauty part…

Well, shit.

Could this entry be _right_?

Immediately, he refused to let himself believe it. There was a distance that came with the knowledge that, barring a monster prematurely removing his guts from his body, Geralt was going to outlive every non-witcher he ever spoke to. And that distance was _safe_. That distance kept him on the Path, kept him away from dangerous things like…

He hesitated.

It usually kept him from doing things like forming connections. Like helping people without expecting anything in return. Like quietly studying Jaskier’s face right as the omega fell asleep, memorizing the faint freckles across his nose.

It kept him from doing things like falling in love.

He froze.

Oh _, shit_.

He pressed his palm to his mouth, heart pounding as if to tell him _it’s the truth, it’s the truth, it’s the truth_.

_Shit. Fuck. Wait a damn moment._

He jumped when Jaskier called his name, automatically slamming the book shut.

“Geralt!” Jaskier sounded excited. “Geralt, look!”

Gathering himself—or at least composing his expression and being grateful that Jaskier didn’t seem to be able to smell emotions as acutely as Geralt could—Geralt poked his head around the end of the shelf.

Jaskier was waiting for him, holding something reverently. He offered it to Geralt to see, but seemed unwilling to actually hand it off.

Geralt blinked at it, his head still reeling. _Love??_ “Er…” He shook his head. “A lute?”

Its rounded back was variegated, patterned in alternating strips of lacewood and walnut, and the back of the pegbox was ornately carved. The etched rose in the center of the soundboard looked lacy, so finely was it crafted. Holding it awkwardly due to Clara still snoozing against his chest, Jaskier ran a finger over the strings. “It’s really out of tune, but… gods, isn’t it gorgeous?” He held it like he was in awe. “What’s something like this doing here?”

“Someone must have sold it,” Geralt said. “It’s beautiful, Jask.”

Jaskier’s deft fingers were already playing with the tuning pegs, his lashes falling over his eyes as he looked down reverently at his find. He placed his fingers on the fretboard experimentally, wincing somewhat at his still-healing wounds, and plucked a chord. The sound filled the shop, slightly off-pitch. Resonant. Beautiful and almost eerie.

Jaskier shivered, his eyes falling closed. “Wow.”

Geralt very much doubted that he could afford the lute just then, but the look on Jaskier’s face… it was happiness. Pure and undiluted. “As soon as I come back from my next contract,” Geralt heard himself say, “I’ll buy that for you.”

The omega’s eyes shot open. “ _What_?” He clutched the lute, stunned. “Geralt, this… this has _got_ to be expensive. This lute is probably worth about as much as I am.”

The way Jaskier so easily compared himself with saleable merchandise made Geralt grimace. “Your worth is infinite,” he said firmly. “But… yes, it might be expensive. And I’ll buy it for you.”

Jaskier’s jaw went a little bit slack. “I can’t pay you back for this,” he said. “Maybe someday I’d have been able to pay you back for the clothes, and the food, and the shelter, but _this_ …”

“If paying me back is truly important to you, then I’m sure you can. Later, when you have your feet under you.” He nodded to the lute. “But it would be a gift.”

Jaskier seemed shocked. His fingers caressed the strings even as he stared at Geralt in surprise. “I used to play,” he said softly. “When I was young. Before… before everything.” A little smile fluttered over his face. “I wanted to be a bard, back then.”

Geralt cocked his head thoughtfully. “Do you still?”

“I don’t know.” Another chord, equally otherworldly. Equally breathtaking. “Maybe. Not sure I could, anymore.”

“Hmm.” Geralt crossed his arms. “Well, you _definitely_ can’t if you don’t have an instrument. So.”

The cobalt blue of Jaskier’s eyes was brightening, and his cheeks were pink. “Geralt, would you… you’d actually do this for me?”

Geralt nodded. The realization had sunk in slowly, perhaps impeded by decades of loneliness, but that didn’t make it any less real. Just looking at Jaskier made his chest fill with strange, intoxicating warmth. “I think…” He swallowed around the tightness in his throat. Maybe he’d been blind, to not have seen this sooner. Maybe he’d been in denial. “I think maybe I would do anything for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp.
> 
> Oh! Before I forget, I have a quick lil announcement: Thank you so much for all your amazing one-shot suggestions! Y'all are wonderfully creative, and I'm excited to dive in. I'm not sure when I'll start releasing them, but you might have noticed that Topaz and Cornflower is now listed as part of a series--the second part of the series will be a fic that's just a compilation of all those one-shots. Please know that while I can't realistically write *all* of your brilliant ideas, I will do my best to hit as many as I can. I also might combine suggestions, and credit both commenters at once. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and for leaving kudos and comments if you're so inclined! You guys make me so happy :)))


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ!!!  
> I decided to put this lil announcement at the beginning this time. For fun.  
> You might have noticed that my update time has slowed down a little bit recently. I'm not getting disenchanted with the story, don't worry! What's happening is that a) I'm moving in about a week, b) I'm working on a paid writing project at the moment, which ultimately has to come first, and c) I'm a full-time university student, and the spring semester is starting in approximately... soon. So what I'm going to do is actually take another quick hiatus. I won't be gone for longer than a couple weeks, but I need a minute to get my feet under me again! It's been a little hectic. When I come back, hopefully I'll have a new buffer built up, and some one-shots to release as well. It won't be long, so fret not :) 
> 
> TL;DR:  
> I'm going on a quick hiatus after this chapter! Don't pine too hard!
> 
> Righty then! On to the chapter. Content warnings include references to past rape/non-con and references to past abuse.

Geralt looked so very flustered.

Oh, gods, that was kind of adorable.

Jaskier held the lute—the lute that would be _his_ lute, soon, he could barely believe that—reverently, but Geralt’s face… well, it was almost enough to distract him from the instrument. The witcher didn’t really do facial expressions the same way Jaskier, or most other people, did. Most of the time, his face was set and stony, broken only by a slight down-turning of his brows when he was concerned, a twitch of his mouth if he was happy, a sardonic little smirk if he was irritated. He was _stoic_. That was the word the poets would use.

But right then, he looked distinctly baffled.

Jaskier felt the heat rise in his own cheeks. Gods, the witcher’s flustered-ness was catching. “That’s… impossibly sweet, Geralt. I don’t need much, but, um. Thank you. That is very sweet.”

The witcher looked like he was about to say something more, but then he took a stabilizing breath. “There’s something I wanted to find here.” He stepped back, looking away. Was that _blush_ in his cheeks? “I’m going to look for it. If you need me—”

“I’ll just call.” Jaskier smiled. No way Geralt was blushing. “I think I could whisper and you’d still hear me, but I’ll just call.”

Apparently satisfied, Geralt vanished back into the shelves. Jaskier chuckled quietly to himself, running a finger over the strings of the lute. It was strangely delightful to see Geralt so ruffled. A wicked little part of Jaskier really wanted to see it again. And he was fairly confident that he could make that happen.

But enough on that—he could scheme later on oh-so-evil plans to make Geralt blush. Right now, he was holding a lute, and he hadn’t had that chance since since… he pressed his lips together. He’d been thirteen, hadn’t he?

He could remember the exact color of the wood of his old lute, and he could remember the view from his window as he plucked contentedly at the courses, practicing some new ballad. And then he remembered the shivering wave of heat that had seemed to originate from somewhere deep in his middle, and how suddenly, his head had spun. He remembered how he’d dropped the lute, doubling over as his vision swam and his stomach cramped, and his skin had begun racing with chills.

He remembered presenting.

And he remembered what came after.

His grip was too tight on the neck of the lute. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath of the shop’s dusty air and pointedly relaxing his hands. It wouldn’t do at all to damage this gorgeous instrument. Especially not over a memory of something that had happened a whole seven years earlier.

He was fine.

***

Geralt emerged from the depths of the shop some twenty minutes later, carrying a small, paper-wrapped package and a large book.

Jaskier raised an eyebrow, still quietly playing, and nodded at the concealed package. “What’s that?”

Geralt just shrugged.

“Hmph.” Jaskier pouted with no real irritation behind it. “Mysterious.” He played one final chord. “Are we leaving now?”

“Yes.” Geralt hesitated. “Unless you’d like to stay?”

That was tempting, honestly. Jaskier hadn’t touched a lute in years, and playing one now… he could feel the muscle memory coming back. He’d missed the music more than he’d realized. But Clara was going to get hungry soon, and honestly, Jaskier himself was exhausted. It wasn’t even midday, but he felt like he could keel over and sleep until the next morning. Aside from that, his body had only been getting achier since that morning, and he was far too aware of the sensitivity where his sweater brushed over his budding wings. “No,” he sighed. Still holding it like it was made of glass, he set the lute on the shelf where he had found it. “No, we can go.”

Geralt squinted when they stepped into the sun, his pupils contracting to slits, but Jaskier felt himself relax. The faint warmth felt heavenly. “You know,” he said as they started down the street, “I haven’t properly sunbathed in years.”

“Sunbathed?” Geralt sounded a little amused.

“Yeah.” Jaskier stretched, opening his palms to the sky. “Like basking. I used to do it all the time.”

“Is that a… fae thing?” Geralt ventured.

“Uh. Probably.” Jaskier shrugged. “I’d go to some high place and just soak in the sun. Felt _glorious_ on my wings.”

“Like cats do.”

“Cats don’t have wings.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Cats _sunbathe_.” He fell quiet for a moment. “Jask, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

The witcher hesitated for a moment. “How long do fae live?”

“Ah.” Jaskier swallowed, his hands going to hold Clara in her little sling. “Well. Depends on when something kills us.” He laughed a uncomfortably. “You don’t have to stick with me that long, of course.”

Geralt held the book he was carrying a little more firmly, and Jaskier noticed his breathing hitch. “No, that’s not it. Just… you won’t die of old age?”

Jaskier felt himself wince. That was something he’d thought about all too often when he’d been under someone he didn’t want. Or several someones. Or when he was being kicked, or collared, or locked away. He would get trapped in hopeless, panicked loops, spiraling over the fact that it would never _end_ unless it ended painfully. “No,” he said finally, and regretted that his voice sounded a little too tight. “No, I won’t. And…” he swallowed. “And if I haven’t stopped aging yet, I will in the next few years.” Eternally nice and fuckable. Eternally a valuable commodity.

He shivered.

“I didn’t mean to touch a nerve,” Geralt said quietly. There was something in his voice. Was that _awe_? Or relief? Or perhaps simply fascination.

Jaskier ran his fingers through Clara’s curls, letting the movement center him. “And what about witchers?” he asked, changing the subject. “You live longer than humans, don’t you?”

Geralt nodded. “Centuries.” He looked thoughtful. “I don’t know about myself, though. Might live longer.”

Jaskier glanced up curiously. “Why’s that?”

Now it was Geralt’s turn to look uncomfortable. “You know of witcher mutations, yes?”

“A little.” Jaskier frowned, thinking of the stories he’d heard. Stories of monsters, emotionless abominations, beasts in human-like form. “But I don’t know about the reliability of anything I’ve heard. Much of it seems to have been wrong.”

“Yes. Well.” Geralt stepped around a pothole in the street. “Every witcher underwent mutations. As a child.” His face was just a touch harder than normal.

So it was an unpleasant memory, then.

He went on. “After the Trial of the Grasses, I was selected to receive another round of mutagens, along with some other boys.” He shook his head. “Only I survived. It had an effect in enhancing my capabilities, that’s certain, but long-term…” he shrugged. “Nobody can say. I’m the only one like this.”

Sensing Geralt’s discomfort, Jaskier leaned into his side. “We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.”

Geralt sighed, switching the book and package to his other side so he could put an arm over Jaskier’s slimmer shoulders. “I’m alright, Jask.”

Jaskier put his own arm around Geralt’s waist. “I tell myself that, too.” He looked up at the witcher, studying his golden, cat-like eyes. “Would you let me know if you weren’t alright?”

“You have enough to worry about without that.”

Jaskier poked him. “Come on, witcher. I’d listen, you know.”

Geralt just sighed again, giving Jaskier a gentle squeeze. “It’s really not important.”

It didn’t seem right to press, not when Geralt had been so respectful of Jaskier’s own boundaries. But he wasn’t sure that Geralt was telling the truth about it being unimportant.

In her sling, Clara opened her eyes and blinked up at both of them, her tiny lips opening into a perfect, o-shaped yawn. Geralt’s face softened even as Clara began to whimper, waving her little fists. “Is she hungry?”

Jaskier lifted her out of the sling to hold her close to his body. She fussed, nosing against his chest. “Yeah.” He bounced her gently, trying to delay the inevitable full-blown sobbing that was bound to come, especially when Clara found that again, Jaskier couldn’t feed her himself. “I—I still can’t nurse.”

“That’s alright.” Geralt offered Clara a finger, and she grabbed at it, temporarily distracted. “We can hurry back.”

“It’s already been a few days,” Jaskier murmured. “How long is it supposed to be before I can take care of her properly?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said firmly. The hardness in his voice commanded Jaskier’s ear immediately, but instead of stiffening in fear at the rough tone, he only felt his body melt a little further into the alpha’s side. “You _are_ taking care of her properly.”

“I know, I know,” Jaskier mumbled. “I just…” He huffed. “I feel like I’m doing something wrong.”

“You’re not. Just keep trying. And keep eating well, yourself.” Geralt rubbed Jaskier’s shoulder. “Listen, Jask.” He sighed. “I’ve known since the first round of mutations that I’d never be able to sire a child of my own. So I won’t pretend to be an expert on parenting, or raising babies, or… anything like that, actually. Because I never thought about it.” Clara gurgled, distressed, and Geralt stroked her hair back from her face with a thumb. “But even I can tell that you’re doing a good job.”

Jaskier looked up at him. “You think so?” He cradled Clara closer when Geralt nodded, and then tilted his head. “Wait. You can’t…?”

Geralt huffed with a touch of humor. “I’m sterile. All witchers are.”

Jaskier felt his eyebrows come together. “Are you okay with that?”

“Hmm.” Geralt shrugged. “Even if I wasn’t, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

For some reason, that made Jaskier’s heart hurt. Maybe it was the resignation in Geralt’s voice, or the fact that he hadn’t given an actual _yes_ to Jaskier’s question. “You never imagined yourself as a father?”

Geralt exhaled heavily. “I don’t think I’d make a good father.”

Jaskier stopped dead in the street, and the witcher, a step ahead, turned back around with concern in his face.

Geralt stepped quickly back to Jaskier’s side. “What’s wrong?”

Without saying a word, Jaskier grabbed the book out of Geralt’s hands, and tucked the mysterious paper-wrapped package into Clara’s empty sling.

And then he handed Clara to the witcher.

Immediately, she cooed, reaching for Geralt’s hair, and the startled Geralt cradled her as naturally as if he’d been doing it for years. When Geralt was done blinking at her in surprise, he looked to Jaskier in bafflement.

Jaskier just huffed. Clara Thistle, tiny and perfect in Geralt’s arms, was already gurgling happily, and Geralt held her as if he knew just how priceless she was. He didn’t even flinch when Clara yanked cheerfully on his hair. Jaskier crossed his arms. “Wouldn’t make a good father, my ass.”

Geralt’s eyes went wide, and his cheeks flushed dusky pink.

Well. There was that blush Jaskier had wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~blush~
> 
> Your comments and kudos inspire me so very much, so thank you to everyone who's left them! And to everyone who hasn't, I love y'all as well! Thanks for reading!


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO MY FRIENDS I HAVE RETURNED
> 
> I'm officially no longer on hiatus! ~so exciting~  
> I do want to let you know that I probably won't update *quite* as frequently as before--my guess is I'll get a chapter out about once a week. Last semester, I could update about twice a week, but I'm taking more credits this semester, and also trying to go to bed earlier than three every night. 
> 
> ALSO!!!!!! I have posted the first one-shot! Go ahead and check that out, it's very fluffy :)))
> 
> Just for context, since I know it's been a while, this takes place on the same day as the previous chapter, after Geralt and Jask get back from the market. There are no content warnings for this chapter, but let me know in the comments if you think I've missed one.

“Jask.”

With a little groan, Jaskier retreated further into the pillows. Gods, this bed was nice. Fucking luscious.

There came a little chuckle from somewhere above him. “Jaskier. Come on.”

Jaskier rolled over, grumbling. “Five more minutes.”

“I’m going to pull the blankets off.”

Woozily, Jaskier cracked open one eye. “Don’t you dare, Geralt.”

“I’m going to.”

“You wouldn’t.”

The blankets flew off of Jaskier, letting the chilly air of the apartment assault his bare upper body. He curled into a ball with a shriek. “Ge- _ralt_!”

The witcher was laughing. “Jask, you’ve been napping for five hours. It’s time to get up, you have to eat.”

“I’m _freezing_ now!” Jaskier hugged himself, trying to bury into the pillows.

“Hm?” Geralt’s face was far too innocent. “Don’t like the cold?”

Jaskier glared at him, pouting. “Find me one _single_ omega who can handle being cold. One. I dare you.”

“If you get up you can put your sweater on and sit by the fireplace for a moment.”

“No,” Jaskier whined. “Give me the blanket back.”

“Come on, Jask. Aren’t you hungry?”

Jaskier paused for a moment, still clutching at the pillows. “Er… yes.”

Geralt chuckled again, and then his hands were on Jaskier’s shoulders, nudging him to a seat. Jaskier felt himself leaning into the touch. Damn, Geralt was warm. “I fed Clara,” Geralt said, offering Jaskier the night-blue sweater. “But we don’t have any food in the room for us. We could order some up, or…” He shrugged. “This apartment is still technically an inn. They do serve food downstairs.”

Jaskier frowned, tugging the sweater over his head. “You want to eat there?”

“Not if you don’t want to.” Again, his shoulders rose and fell. “I just thought it could be nice. I heard they had music.”

Thoughtfully, Jaskier slouched over to the fire. “Would it be crowded?”

“I’m not sure.” Geralt walked over to check on the sleeping Clara before joining Jaskier in front of the fire. Jaskier dropped to a seat, leaning in to absorb the warmth. “But I’d be with you the whole time.”

Jaskier bit his lip. “Music, huh?”

Geralt nodded. “I heard they had a bard. Travelling from Redania or someplace.”

“Well-travelled,” Jaskier mused. “Could mean they’re really experienced.” He rubbed his chin. “Or it could mean they’ve been kicked out of every tavern they set foot in, so they have to keep finding new ones.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “I have no idea.”

“Well.” It was undeniable that Jaskier’s curiosity was piqued. And he _was_ starving. “I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

***

The bard, Jaskier thought, was pretty good.

She sat on a stool on the inn’s cramped little stage, stomping and singing along to a concertina she played, in Jaskier’s opinion, quite well. The inn _was_ crowded; Jaskier and Geralt had found seats at the bar, since every table was occupied, and Clara was back in her sling, apparently unbothered by the noise of the inn as she looked around at everything with faint interest. As for Jaskier himself, he couldn’t deny that he was on edge. Not only was his back aching and his gums, where his fangs were coming back in, throbbing terribly, but the air was heavy with scents, and some of those scents were distinctly alpha. True to his word, Geralt stuck close to Jaskier’s side, and Jaskier did his best to keep himself relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. It wasn’t. He was fine.

Geralt nudged Jaskier. “What do you want to eat?”

Jaskier blinked, startled out of his thoughts. The tavern’s lighting was dim, lit as it was with smoky oil lamps, and the slanted, wood-beamed roof caught the sounds of laughter, music, and banging chairs and echoed it around. It was a little overwhelming. “Oh. Um. What do they have?”

At that, the man behind the bar crossed over to them. He smelled like an alpha enough to make Jaskier wary, but he was also old to the point of being nonthreatening. Jaskier wondered if this was the innkeeper’s ancient alpha husband that Lành had mentioned. “We got lots, darlin’,” he said, smiling amicably around a mouth of missing teeth. “Special tonight is roast pork, damn good if I say so.”

The thought of roast pork made Jaskier’s stomach turn inexplicably. He pressed a hand to his mouth.

“Jask?” Geralt glanced over with a touch of concern. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah. Oh, yeah, I’m fine.” Jaskier smiled tightly at the old man. “I’m sorry. What, um. What else do you have?”

The old man gave Jaskier a faintly amused, knowing smile. “Meat not sounding too good right now?”

Jaskier bit his lip and shook his head. “Sorry.”

The wrinkled alpha waved a hand easily. “Don’t worry about it, darlin’. My wife couldn’t keep meat down when she was pregnant with our boys. Think she lived off of eggs, to be wholly honest with you.”

Jaskier blinked. “How’d you know I was—”

The alpha chuckled. “I always had a good nose.”

Eyes wide, Jaskier turned to Geralt. “Do I really—can you smell it, now?”

Geralt looked thoughtful. “It is a bit more distinct, I suppose,” he said. “You smell a bit… warmer.” He found Jaskier’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Almost like meadowsweet. But I already knew, so I wasn’t thinking about it.”

Jaskier’s hand found his belly. He supposed it was about time for others to be able to tell, but it made him strangely nervous. The scent still shouldn’t be _strong_ , and would likely go unnoticed by most for another week or so, but still. “Damn.”

The old alpha chuckled. “Well, don’t fret over it. What are you hungry for?”

Embarrassed warmth crept into Jaskier’s cheeks. “Er. Honestly?”

“If you can crave it, I can serve it. Probably.”

“I, uh.” Jaskier fidgeted under the table. “Roast hazelnuts. And, um... blackberries? Together.” He felt himself blush even deeper. “And mushroom soup with leeks.”

The old man laughed, smile lines creasing deeply around his eyes. “That’s specific, darlin’. But I should be able to whip something together. Anything to drink?”

“Just water, I think.” His face was still hot. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” The alpha turned to Geralt. “And you, sir?”

“That roast pork sounds good.” He glanced to Jaskier. “If the smell won’t bother you?”

Jaskier shook his head. “So long as I don’t have to eat it.”

Geralt turned back to the other alpha. “That, then. And a pint of your best ale.”

When the old man had jotted down their orders and turned away, Jaskier looked to Geralt with a little smile. “Best ale? Is there something you’re celebrating?”

“Hmm.” Geralt tapped a finger on the slightly-sticky surface of the wooden bar. “Dinner with you?”

Jaskier chuckled. “You’ve had dinner with me before.”

“Never out, though.” Geralt looked around. “Are you having a good time at all?”

“Well.” Jaskier looked again to the bard. She looked so happy, bouncing her stripe-stockinged knee to the beat of her jig. Her fingers flew over her concertina, her eyes not scanning the crowd so much as glazing over with the joy of her own music. “I like the bard. She’s good.”

“Hmm. She is.”

Jaskier watched her for a little while longer. Her broad-brimmed hat, upside-down on the stained floor of the short stage, was full of coins, and face was lively and confident. The music filled the whole place. “I could picture it,” Jaskier said after a few minutes, rubbing his achy jaw absently. “Playing like that. Not with that instrument, of course, but...” He noticed himself tapping his heel to the beat. “Picturing isn’t the same as actually being able to. But I could picture it.”

“I think you could if you wanted to. Definitely.” Geralt accepted a mug of ale from the old alpha, and Jaskier thanked him for his own glass of water.

“Right,” Jaskier said inattentively. “Damn, Geralt, look at her fingers move. I never tried learning the concertina, that looks so hard.” Then, he blinked. “I have to pee.”

Geralt snorted. “I think there’s an outhouse outside. Want me to go with you?”

Jaskier shook his head, embarrassed all over again. “I think I can manage going to the bathroom by myself. Thanks.”

“It’s out the door to the right.”

Jaskier thanked him again and unfastened Clara’s sling from his shoulders. Once Geralt had accepted her into his own arms, smiling at her as only the most smitten can, Jaskier pushed himself away from the bar. He had to wind through the tables, bumping against people here and there, but nobody paid him any mind, and he gritted his teeth and bore it. When he reached the door, the cold evening air hit him like a wall, and he swore. Hugging himself, he hurried to the little outbuilding.

This, he realized, was the first time he’d actually been out without Geralt since the witcher had rescued him from Bartek’s. It was nothing, a run to the bathroom, but…

He was alone.

The realization struck him forcefully, but he shook it off. It was a trip to the _bathroom_ , and if he couldn’t manage to accomplish that without someone holding his hand, then he had even bigger problems than he’d thought. He’d lived on the street with Clara for two months. He could do this.

He was going to be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ope!
> 
> Just a reminder that I have also posted the first one-shot, go ahead and check that out here: 
> 
> [**One-shots related to Topaz and Cornflower**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29297328) (1248 words) by [**SaintNynniaw**](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintNynniaw)  
>  As ever, comments and kudos make my day! Thanks for reading!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of Jask's trauma has happened in the past. In this chapter, we will see a bit happen in the present of the story. Please heed the content warnings, and take care of yourselves.  
> Content warnings for this chapter: sexual harassment, attempted sexual assault, non-con touching, panic attack.

The cold assaulted Jaskier all over again when he stepped back outside. Fuck, he was going to need a hug when he got back to Geralt. Absorb some witcher warmth.

A few drunks, smoking outside, whistled at him as he made his way back to the inn. He cringed, keeping his eyes steadfastly on the ground.

“Hey, gorgeous,” one of them called, and his friends laughed raucously. “You lonely tonight?”

 _Ignore them,_ Jaskier told himself firmly. _Don’t react_. He was fifty feet from the door to the inn, from the light spilling out of the windows. The evening around him was darkening to proper night—this far north, the nights would be long for a while yet even as the days grew warmer. The moon was hazy in the sky, silver clouds dancing over it. Jaskier couldn’t see the stars. _Just ignore them._

“I’m talking to you, baby!” the drunk called again. Jaskier felt his hands fist at his sides, and sudden footsteps behind him prompted him to pick up the pace. Was ignoring them the right thing to do? Or should he run? The drunk’s voice came again, this time from directly behind him, and a hand clasped onto his wrist.

Jaskier gasped, jerking his hand away.

Ignoring them wasn’t going to work. He looked up, trying to gauge how fast he could sprint the remaining distance to the door of the inn.

Before he could, the man had his wrist again. He dropped the bottle of dark alcohol he’d been nursing, and his friends laughed as he shoved Jaskier clumsily to the wall. The reek of whiskey and alpha made Jaskier’s head spin as he struggled against the man’s grasp. “Let go,” he demanded. His heart was hammering. _Fuck._

“Come on, beautiful,” the alpha crooned. His friends were gathering around. “I’d treat you right.”

Darkly around him, the edges of his vision began folding in in as Jaskier struggled against the man’s hold. The alpha had pinned Jaskier’s wrists to the wall, the rough brick digging into his skin, and he strained uselessly against the larger man’s grasp. “Let me go,” he commanded again. To his chagrin, his voice shook.

Jaskier’s breathing was starting to come too quickly as the man leaned in. Terrified instinct was urging him to go slack; he fought against the imperative to tilt back his head, to bare his throat and plead that the alpha wouldn’t hurt him. His blood was thundering in his ears. “I know you don’t mean that,” the alpha whispered. Giggling, one of his friends sidled to his side and reached to run a finger down the side of Jaskier’s face. With a snarl, Jaskier snapped at it.

The man jerked his hand away before Jaskier’s teeth, sharp even without his fangs, could close on the digit. “Fuck!”

“Leave me alone,” Jaskier panted. His mind was a whirlpool. He’d tentatively begun to imagine that perhaps he’d simply experienced the dregs of humanity. That he’d been passed around among monsters, not men, and maybe most people _weren’t_ like that.

Apparently, he’d been wrong.

_Not again, not again, not again._

He couldn’t do this again.

He could feel his chin tipping back as terrified nature forced reason from its seat, blurring his rationality as he offered the vulnerable column of his throat. A terrified keening broke through the noise of the alpha’s heavy, lustful breathing, and Jaskier noted distantly that it came from his own mouth.

“There you go, sweetheart,” the alpha grunted. He released one of Jaskier’s hands to run a thumb along Jaskier’s neck. The man wasn’t gentle as his searching hand found one of Jaskier’s scent glands; he pressed down forcefully, and Jaskier sucked in a gasp as his eyes unfocused. The alpha began to massage it with the rough pad of his finger, rubbing in firm, determined circles. Each pass, unyielding in its intent, sent a roll of sickly heat through Jaskier’s being, and it was all he could do to keep his eyes open as he shivered.

It didn’t take long to feel his body react. The alpha’s scent bloomed through Jaskier’s awareness, filling his body with a dull, awful throb, and he choked as he his throat closed up. It wasn’t the same feeling as when Geralt held him; then, it felt like the witcher’s scent made him melt with feelings of security, of contentment. This was much more familiar—and much worse. This was burning, paralyzing. His body wasn’t responding to his will, drowning in the power of the drunk alpha’s reek.

He felt himself go slack against the wall.

“That’s better.” The alpha growled with pleasure, a harsh, horrible sound, and fear buzzed numbingly in Jaskier’s veins. “Be good, now.”

Jaskier’s mouth felt full of cotton, and his head was too. He tried to focus on something—on _anything_. He’d been walking back from the bathroom. He was going to the inn.

 _The inn_.

The inn was thirty feet away.

The alpha was nosing at Jaskier’s neck while his friends circled closer, looking hungry.

_He needed to get to the inn._

Jaskier’s vision was blurry, but he didn’t need to see the leering man’s face to know where it was. Holding his breath in an attempt to stave off the alpha’s stench, he drew his head back just a bit farther.

The alpha grunted, pleased at the display of submission.

Until Jaskier gathered every last remaining shred of self-control, and smashed his head forward.

The hardest part of Jaskier’s forehead met the alpha’s face squarely, and he was rewarded with a grisly _crunch_. The alpha released him, reeling back and clutching at his face; through the fog of terror and the alpha’s lingering influence, Jaskier saw blood begin to spurt from between the man’s fingers.

His own voice sounded echoing in his head:

 _Run_.

Two of the alpha’s friends started after him, but then hesitated at the alpha’s vicious stream of cursing. Jaskier heard a number of truly awful words hurled in his direction, but they barely reached him; he could scarcely feel his body move as he sprinted toward the door. His legs were wobbly. Once, he tripped, the ground whirling up to meet him, but he shoved himself up and kept going.

The door to the inn was heavy for his shaking body, but he heaved his entire weight against it, and it gave. He stumbled inside, and immediately the indoor warmth, even heavy as it was with the smell of spilled beer, food, and so many people, dragged his awareness to the present.

He’d made it. Over the heads of the crowded inn, he could see Geralt still sitting at the far end of the bar, his white hair reflecting the warm lamplight. In that moment, Jaskier wanted nothing but Geralt to keep the world from touching him.

But if he went to Geralt like this, the witcher would surely notice. Jaskier knew he smelled like terror, and even if Geralt missed the scent of foreign alpha lingering on Jaskier’s skin—there were enough people around to possibly disguise it—it wouldn’t be possible to ignore the fact that Jaskier was still coming down from the panic. He leaned against the wall beside the door; the next thing he knew, he was sitting on the floor.

Alright. Coming down wasn’t the right way to put it. Instead, it felt like the panic was perhaps catching up to him.

His entire body was broken into frigid sweat.

 _It wasn’t even bad_ , he told himself firmly. _You’ve had so much worse. They didn’t even do anything._ Trembling in the shadowed corner of the inn, unnoticed by any of the raucous guests, he gripped his head in his hands. _You hit him. You defended yourself. That’s better, that’s more than you’ve ever done. You should be fine, Jaskier. Nothing_ happened _._

He just needed to collect himself.

Geralt didn’t need to know about this. Jaskier couldn’t justify to himself why he didn’t want to tell the witcher about what had happened. Maybe it was because it had been nothing but a trip to the bathroom, and he didn’t want to seem pathetic, didn’t want to seem like he couldn’t handle the tiniest little thing on his own. Or maybe it was because before everything, he’d actually been having—gods forbid—a nice night. He didn’t want that to stop. He didn’t want anything to have happened, and maybe if he pretended like it hadn’t, everything would be fine. 

_You’re okay. You’re fine. Nothing happened._ He swallowed hard, digging his fingers into his hair and gripping hard. _And even if something_ had _happened, you could’ve taken it. You have before. So many times._

Somehow, it felt stupid that he’d started to hope that life was behind him. He’d started to think, without consciously giving himself permission, that maybe the world wasn’t so cruel.

Why had he let himself think that?

An unexpected sob shook him, and he realized that he was shaking _hard_. His hands felt numb, and his body was hardly better. He let his forehead fall to meet his tucked-up knees, burying his head in his arms.

And in a few moments, the world gave itself up to be swallowed under the encroaching tide of panic.

He couldn’t tell how long it took before he started feeling like he was on the ground again. Slowly, his sobs quieted—not that he could hear them over the ruckus of the inn anyway—and his shaking began to still.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Okay,” he murmured to himself. He didn’t feel steady, but experience told him the horrible, soul-wracking fear had mostly passed. He wasn’t okay. But he could function. He pushed himself up on weak legs, and took a deep breath. His scent glands were oily with the distress of being so roughly manipulated, and he brushed at them gently with his sleeve, wincing at the sensitivity. “I’m okay. I’m fine.”

He was good at schooling his face into a mask of contentedness; he’d had plenty of experience. At that moment, he assumed his best blithe expression, as if nothing had ever been wrong.

And he set off toward Geralt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...yikes.
> 
> As always, I love to hear from you guys. Kudos and comments are always more than welcome. Thanks so much for reading.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: a bit of panic

The crowdedness of the inn was much more overwhelming than it had been before. Jaskier did his best to navigate around the edge of the room, but even then, he was buffeted by people pushing back their chairs, people crossing to the bar, people moving to get closer to the bard. In one sense, it was a blessing; the more he concentrated on the simple act of journeying to Geralt, the less he thought about… anything else.

When he was about three-quarters of the way there, someone at one of the tables pushed out their chair. Before Jaskier could get out of the way, the chair leg snagged his foot; he caught himself at the last moment on the corner of the long bar, but not before the person in the chair, the ascent to their feet abruptly halted, lost their balance. They tripped backwards with a yelp, and Jaskier just barely got his hands up in time to keep the stranger from landing on him and taking them both to the ground. As it was, the stranger’s weight toppled Jaskier sideways into the bar. He felt the air leave his lungs in a rush.

The stranger scrambled backward quickly, getting off of him. “Oh my gods, I’m so sorry! Are you alright?”

Jaskier could barely breathe. “I’m okay,” he managed, forcing a flickering smile. He thought his ribs might be bruised, but that wasn’t anything. “I’m fine.”

The stranger looked apologetic. He hurried to push the chair back in, and Jaskier saw that there was another person sitting there, watching the exchange passively. “I’m sorry,” the stranger said. “That was entirely my fault. I didn’t look.”

There was still too little air in Jaskier’s lungs. He rubbed his side and did his best to inhale normally.

Then he froze.

This stranger, though his face looked sincerely concerned, was most definitely an alpha. The scent hit Jaskier’s nose with the power of a punch, the scent of charcoal and dry earth. A terrified chirrup escaped Jaskier’s mouth before he could choke it back, and he stumbled backward into the bar.

The alpha looked confused. “Are you alright? I’m really sorry, I swear—hey, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?” His forehead creased. “You smell… scared?”

If this non-witcher alpha could smell Jaskier’s fear enough to identify it for what it was, Jaskier knew the scent had to be strong. _Fuck_. He had just been getting his panic back under control, and now he was starting to shake again. The world seemed too bright, even in the dimness of the inn. “Please get back.” He held out one hand defensively, and the words stumbled out automatically. “Leave me alone—”

A faint look of offense mingled with the concern on the alpha’s face, but he held up his hands, taking a step back in compliance with Jaskier’s demand. “Okay. Sorry.”

There came an irritated sigh from the table, and the alpha’s friend rose to his feet. “Gods, sweetheart,” he said, bracing his palms on the table and rolling his eyes at Jaskier. “It was an accident. Loosen up a little.”

The alpha who’d knocked into Jaskier shot his buddy a glare. “Shut up, Reuben. Can’t you see he’s upset?”

The other man—Reuben—huffed at his friend. “All I’m saying is he’s being rude. You didn’t mean nothing.” His heavy-lidded eyes slid to Jaskier again. “You gotta lighten up, sweetheart. Who hurt you, anyway?”

Jaskier tried for a stabilizing breath, but all he got was a nose full of alpha scent. He could feel the weight of terror, just _barely_ at bay, pressing around the edges of his fragile defenses. He fought against the insistence of the fear with everything he had. “You want a list?”

_“What’s going on here?”_

Relief swept through Jaskier at the familiar voice, and then Geralt’s hand was on his shoulder. The witcher’s furious golden glare swept over the other alpha and his friend. Both of them quailed.

“We didn’t do nothing—” the alpha’s friend said quickly.

Jaskier could feel himself sinking into Geralt’s side. The witcher held him protectively, almost possessively, pressing Jaskier’s smaller frame against his body as his lip curled back at the other men. “They didn’t do anything,” Jaskier affirmed faintly. “It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

“I swear,” the stranger alpha said, palms raised in submission to Geralt’s presence. “We didn’t mean any harm. Swear.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “You’re fucking lucky Jaskier says that’s the truth.”

The stranger alpha gulped, taking a step back. Jaskier recognized the shift in his body language, his deference to Geralt. “I’m terribly sorry if we offended,” he said. “And I hope your omega’s okay.” He looked to Jaskier, addressing him directly. His eyes were earnest. “Really. I’m sorry.”

Geralt’s scent was surrounding Jaskier, and the witcher’s body heat was filling him. Geralt had shifted Clara’s sling to his back, and with the hand that was behind Geralt, Jaskier could feel her wiggling, probably playing with her own toes. “S’alright,” he said to the apologetic alpha. His breathing was coming more steadily, but now that Geralt was holding him, Jaskier was fighting himself to stay on his feet. He felt like he was trembling, but couldn’t tell if he actually _was_. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Just for good measure, apparently, Geralt gave the pair one last warning growl before leading Jaskier away.

As soon as they were back at their spot at the bar, Geralt turned to Jaskier with urgency in his eyes. “Jaskier, are you alright?” He clearly wasn’t oblivious to the sheer level of Jaskier’s distress, and those topaz eyes flicked frantically over Jaskier’s body as if searching for injury. “What happened?”

Jaskier took a deep, unsteady breath, and Geralt’s scent washed over him like a balm. He found himself moving closer, craving Geralt’s touch. The witcher complied; he sat, allowing Jaskier to be taller than him, and took both of Jaskier’s hands in his own seemingly without thinking. The effect was immediate, and grounding. “It was nothing,” Jaskier said, eyes flicking away across the room. “That alpha startled me when he bumped into me.” He gave Geralt’s callused hands a shaky squeeze. “That’s all.”

For a moment, Jaskier wasn’t sure Geralt believed him. “That’s all that happened?” The witcher seemed incredibly on edge, as if Jaskier’s stress was triggering a protective instinct that Geralt didn’t quite know how to channel.

Jaskier nodded, daring another glance at Geralt’s face. The witcher was looking Jaskier like nothing else mattered. “That’s all,” Jaskier said quietly.

Geralt’s eyes flicked back and forth between Jaskier’s for a few heartbeats. “Fuck.” He closed his eyes, looking like he was trying to calm himself. “Jask, would you please—for a minute—” Jaskier blinked in confusion until Geralt released his hands. The witcher took hold Jaskier’s waist, gentle but unyieldingly firm, and pulled him in against his body. “Come here. Please.”

The witcher’s arms were tight around Jaskier’s body, and after a moment, Jaskier softened into the embrace. He squeezed his eyes shut as Geralt’s presence began to fill him with tingling warmth, and felt hot tears bead under his eyelashes.

_It’s okay,_ he told himself. _He’s here. Geralt is here._

“I’ve got you,” Geralt murmured. The words rumbled through Jaskier’s body, and he felt himself tremble with a quiet sob. His hands were grasping at Geralt’s shirt, clenching on the fabric like letting go would be the end. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jaskier hiccupped into Geralt’s shoulder. “I shouldn’t—shouldn’t even be crying—”

Geralt’s arms tightened protectively around him. “None of that.” His voice was low, but commanding. One of his hands found the back of Jaskier’s head, and his fingers tangled in Jaskier’s hair. “You’re just fine, Jask.” He rubbed Jaskier’s back gently, obviously being careful to avoid Jaskier’s budding wings. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jaskier shook his head. “There’s—” He swallowed hard. “There’s nothing to talk about.” His voice came out at a whisper.

For some reason, Geralt looked sad at that answer, but he just sighed. “Do you want to go back the apartment?”

“No,” Jaskier said hoarsely. He would not fuck up the evening any more than he already had. “No. Let’s stay here.” He buried his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck, letting the witcher’s warm forest scent fill him. “We haven’t even eaten.”

“Hmm.” Geralt traced comforting circles on Jaskier’s back, apparently unbothered by Jaskier’s tears soaking into the collar of his shirt. “Do you want to hold Clara?”

At that, Jaskier nodded, leaning back just a degree. Yes. He wanted to hold his daughter. He wanted to remind himself that no matter what, there was something that mattered more than anything Jaskier could suffer. Geralt slipped Clara’s sling off of his own shoulders and settled it on Jaskier’s, and Jaskier lifted his child close to his chest. She fussed softly, as if she could sense her father’s unhappiness. “Hey, sweetie,” Jaskier murmured. “Don’t you worry. Everything’s fine.”

For the rest of the evening, Geralt did not once break contact with Jaskier. Even when they ate, he moved their stools together and sat with a palm resting on Jaskier’s leg; when he could, he let Jaskier lean on him, fitting along the side of his body. And after a while, Jaskier felt… better. Not good. But he didn’t feel quite as inexplicably, painfully horrible, and that had to be enough.

Didn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's play a game called 'does Geralt believe you for half a damn second when you say you're fine, Jask?'
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!!! As ever, kudos and comments are super inspiring! I'm still answering some from earlier chapters; I'm a bit behind, but I read every single comment, and they motivate me so much <3
> 
> Have a swell day, and if you're in Texas right now, I hear the weather is mad, so stay safe!


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: blood, references to past abuse

That night, Jaskier woke up fighting.

Someone was holding his wrists, pressing him onto his back. Someone was holding him down, and all of Jaskier’s frantic struggling could not dislodge them.

“Jaskier!”

_That voice_. He knew that voice.

“Hey. Come back to me.” The pressure on his wrists loosened as Jaskier stopped trying to wrestle away. “Are you awake?”

Jaskier’s chest was heaving, and his body was soaked in cold sweat. “Geralt,” he said hoarsely. His voice hurt like he’d been shouting.

The witcher heaved a sigh of relief, and then the pressure was gone from Jaskier’s wrists.

Jaskier propped himself up. His heart was hammering, and his ears rang. “Nightmare,” he rasped. He coughed as the word caught on his overtaxed throat.

“I could tell,” Geralt said. There was an edge in his tone, but whether it was worried or angry, Jaskier couldn’t tell. “You were screaming.”

Jaskier’s hand found his throat without thinking. “Oh.” He looked down at the covers, which were twisted around his body, and then slid his gaze over Geralt. The witcher was kneeling on the bed, and… Jaskier frowned. Geralt was covering one of his eyes with the palm of his hand. “What happened?”

“It’s just a scratch.” Geralt’s free hand hovered by Jaskier’s shoulder, like he wanted nothing more than to make sure that Jaskier was alright, but was hesitating to touch him. “Are you…”

“I’m fine,” Jaskier said quickly. “Really, don’t worry about me. Just a nightmare, is all.” Apparently, the terror from the events of that evening had leached into his sleep as well. But more importantly than his dreams… “Are you okay? What happened?” He reached a hand tentatively toward the witcher’s face.

Then his breath halted.

_Oh, no_.

Gently, the witcher closed his free hand around Jaskier’s outstretched fingers. “You didn’t mean to, Jask,” he said quietly. “And it barely hurts.”

“There—” Jaskier stammered. “There’s blood.”

“Only a little.”

Jaskier’s breath was trembling as he stared at his outstretched hand, its darkened fingertips hidden in Geralt’s grasp. “On my hand.”

“Your claws are coming back in. It’s alright.”

“That’s _your_ blood.”

“ _Jaskier_.” Geralt’s voice was firm. “You were having a nightmare. When I tried to touch you, you lashed out. That is all. I’m fine.”

“That’s why you were holding me down.”

Geralt looked chagrined. “I’m sorry about that.” His eyes flicked to the bedspread. “You were trying to claw me. Frankly, I’m proud of you, but I didn’t want to lose an eye, and I wasn’t about to retaliate, so…”

“You’re—” A word stuck in Jaskier’s head. “You’re _proud_ of me?”

Geralt nodded. “You were fighting like a wild thing. Of course, I’m proud of you.”

Jaskier just stared at him. “But I hurt you.”

The witcher shook his head. “You were dreaming. You thought I was attacking you. It only makes sense.” He sighed, settling his eyes seriously on Jaskier’s face. “I’m glad you fought back, Jask. That’s a good thing.”

Jaskier felt his throat constrict. Geralt’s visible honeyed eye was serious and steady, and Jaskier felt the tears coming.

Geralt tugged on Jaskier’s hand, but Jaskier gently resisted the invitation to an embrace.

“Let me see it,” he said, swallowing hard. “Let me see your face.”

The witcher hesitated.

Jaskier chewed his lip. “Is it really bad?”

“It’s not bad at all. It probably won’t even scar.”

“Then why won’t you let me look at it?” Jaskier touched the back of Geralt’s hand. “I—I can help. I’ll help treat it.”

Geralt looked skeptical. “Would that make you feel better?”

“Yes,” Jaskier said, more decisively than he felt.

“It’s going to look worse than it is,” Geralt warned.

“Just, uh—” Jaskier held up a hand for _wait_ , untangling himself from the sheets. He grabbed the unlit candle from beside the bed and made for the embers dying in the fireplace. “Let me just get some light. And—and anything from your bag?” His voice sounded a little too high. “M-medicine? Bandages?”

“Hey—”

“I know you keep stuff in here, right? I saw you sorting it—” He brought the lit candle over to where Geralt’s pack slouched on the floor. The little flame's illumination shook on the walls. “Tell me what you need, I’ll do it. I just—just—”

“Jask—”

“I’ll make this better,” Jaskier breathed. “I’ll do that, I’ll fix this, just tell me—”

“ _Jaskier_.” Geralt’s voice was commanding. Jaskier went still. The witcher sat up against the headboard of the bed and dropped the hand from over his face.

Jaskier gasped. He couldn’t help it.

His own claws had left four deep grooves from Geralt’s cheek to his forehead, raking over an eye that the witcher kept closed—or possibly couldn’t open. Blood coated the alpha’s palm where it had pressed against the injury, red streaks trailing down the side of his face. “Oh,” Jaskier whispered. His throat tightened painfully and his hands fluttered to his mouth. “I… I did _that_?”

Geralt nodded. “It isn’t so bad as it looks. I promise. But, Jask…” He looked like he wanted to lean forward, maybe get out of bed, maybe cross the room toward Jaskier. But he didn’t. And Jaskier didn’t know how to feel about that. “Jaskier, something happened.” He sounded… defeated? “Something happened tonight, and I know it wasn’t that alpha who bumped into you.” His hair, loose from its usual half-up tie, hung around his face—a face that looked almost sorrowful. “You don’t have to tell me anything. Really. But… but if you don’t, then I don’t know what to _do_.” He swallowed, hand moving back to touch one of the claw marks gingerly. “You are not yourself, Jaskier.”

Something about that made a laugh bubble in the back of Jaskier’s throat. It wasn’t the place for it, and it was a horrible little laugh; it twisted through the tight ruin of Jaskier’s fragile self-control. He couldn’t bite it back. The laugh came out broken and awful, and his hand fell away from his mouth.

Geralt’s eye widened. “Jaskier?”

Now that Jaskier had started, he couldn’t stop. Fractured, hacking laughs that sounded like sobs brought him to his knees, and he clutched his middle as he sank down next to Geralt’s pack. “Not myself,” he gasped as if it was funny. His face was wet, but not with blood as was Geralt’s. No, Jaskier was just _crying_. _Again_. As if he ever did a thing except fucking _cry_. “I am, though.” He wheezed, doubling over himself. “I am myself. This—” He gestured to himself, to the obvious disaster he was. “This _is_ who I am.”

Now, Geralt did slide out of bed. Jaskier only held himself tighter as the alpha approached.

“I thought I was getting better,” he managed. He was still shaking with that acrid, overwhelming laughter, and it felt like it was going to crack him from the inside. “I really thought I was, but now I think I was wrong. All it took—” his voice came haltingly. “All it took was one stupid, _fucking_ thing, and now I’m like this all over again.” He had slid to the floor. “I’m not better.” The awful laughter had begun giving way to proper sobs. “I thought I would be _better_.”

Geralt knelt next to him, keeping the unblemished side of his face nearest Jaskier. “It’s only been a few weeks since...” he trailed off, not finishing the sentence. _Since Bartek. Since everyone else. Since your life was hell._ "Since everything," he finished quietly. “You aren’t even _physically_ all healed. It takes time.”

“But I’m safe, and I’m fed, and I have _you_ —” Jaskier choked on a sob. “My life is so good now, but I’m still messed up.” He gritted his teeth, ignoring the ache in his jaw from his growing fangs. “I’m so sorry.” He balled his fists against the floor. “I hurt you, and now you’re comforting _me_.” He felt nauseous. “I’m so fucking sorry, Geralt. I’m so sorry.”

Geralt didn’t touch him. Jaskier didn’t know if he wanted him to. “What are you sorry for?” the witcher asked. His voice sounded distinctly pained. A bolt of crippling guilt shot through Jaskier’s heart at the thought that Geralt might be in pain because of Jaskier’s own fucking claws. Maybe they shouldn’t have grown back. Bartek had been right to wrench them loose from their beds.

“Everything,” Jaskier said miserably. “You’re always taking care of me. You’ve been so, _so_ fucking good. And I haven’t given you anything in return except making your life harder, and I am so sorry.” He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to say it enough times. His tears were soaking into his hair. “I am so grateful, and so, _so_ sorry.”

Now, Geralt’s hand landed on Jaskier’s back. Wordlessly, the witcher took Jaskier’s shoulders and lifted him to his knees. Geralt was sitting crosslegged; it didn’t seem to take much effort at all to bundle Jaskier up and pull him onto his lap. He rested his chin on Jaskier’s head, curling around him protectively, and his arms encircled Jaskier’s smaller body completely. “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Geralt said quietly. “I promise.” He nuzzled his nose into Jaskier’s hair, and his breath was warm. “You’re not a burden to me.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to respond, but Geralt tapped it shut with a gentle knuckle under Jaskier’s chin.

“Healing can take a long time. And I do think you’re healing, okay? I can see it happening. But remember what I said last time?” He held Jaskier a little tighter. “You’re going to have bad days. Like this. I’m still staying right here.”

Jaskier heard his own broken keening. “That’s the burden,” he whispered. “That promise, that you're going to keep because you're so good, even though I'm worse than dead weight. Geralt, I have nothing to give you.” He gripped the witcher’s arm even as he said it, as if on some level, he feared that Geralt would say, ‘oh, you’re right’ and just… let him go. He held on like his life depended on it. “I can’t help with your job. I can’t earn money for you. I can’t—c-can’t _fuck_ you, and I…” He clutched at Geralt’s arm even harder, screwing his eyes shut. “The thing you’ve promised to stay with is a useless, pregnant, _fucked-up_ omega.” By the time he’d gotten out the words, his tears were soaking Geralt’s sleeve. “I can’t even make it worth it for you.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Jaskier’s breathing was stuttering and dizzy, and he forced himself to release his grip on Geralt’s arm.

“Please,” Geralt said finally. He didn’t shift his embrace. “Listen to me.” He sounded… Jaskier didn’t know. All he could read in the witcher’s voice was the weight of his words. “It _can_ be hard to see you like this. And yes, maybe my life is more difficult with you in it.”

Jaskier’s stomach curdled.

“But Jaskier,” Geralt went on, “you do not have to _make it worth it_.” With one hand, he nudged Jaskier to look up at him. “It already _is_ worth it. If I had to go back and re-make every decision that led me here, I would do the exact same thing again. I'd do it gladly.” He growled quietly. “Except maybe letting you walk to the bathroom alone. I _know_ something happened then.” He shook his head. “My point is that I _want_ to be here. I'll say it until you believe me.” He shifted Jaskier on his lap so that Jaskier was facing him. “Are you listening to me?”

Jaskier nodded.

Geralt’s gaze did not falter. “Good. Jaskier…” He leaned forward, just a hair’s-breadth away from touching his nose to Jaskier’s. “Love is not transactional.”

It took Jaskier a moment to realize what Geralt had said. When he did, all of the breath left his lungs. His voice made no sound. “L-love?”

Geralt’s face was soft and serious.

“You…” Jaskier’s heart and lungs weren’t functioning right. He gripped the front of Geralt’s shirt with both fists. “You _love_ me?”

The witcher nodded. “I realized it. A little while back.” He slid his bottom lip between his teeth, looking like he was trying not to bite it. “I don’t expect you to reciprocate, I promise. But… I do. Love you.”

It felt like one hundred emotions were slicing through Jaskier’s chest with every beat of his heart. _Love. He_ loves _me._ “Oh, Geralt,” he managed finally. He released his grip on Geralt’s shirt and brought his arms around his own body. He could feel himself curling inward, hugging himself tightly. Once again, his eyes were burning, but this time, it was equal parts from guilt, and pity for Geralt. “I… I am so sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...ouch. Goddamn.
> 
> As I'm sure you can tell, Jask isn't in a great place at the moment. But I do promise things will get better soon. 
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are so inspiring for me! It's absolutely incredible to hear from you guys.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: panic, self-blaming for past trauma, references to past abuse

_I… I am so sorry_.

Geralt felt his heart seize. He’d said that he didn’t expect Jaskier to reciprocate, and he’d meant it, but maybe that had been too much. He’d been trying to help; had he accidentally put pressure on Jaskier instead? He hadn’t meant to make Jaskier guilty about not feeling the same way. “Wait, Jask…”

Jaskier pressed the pads of his fingers into his eyes like he could force the tears to stay inside. “I’m so sorry, Geralt.” His voice was heavy. Dulled.

“Why are you sorry?” _You fucked up, Geralt._ But he’d only said the truth. Once prompted, the words had come on their own. Geralt shifted the omega on his lap so that he didn’t look so uncomfortable. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m not apologizing,” Jaskier sniffed. “I just—I feel sorry. I’m so sorry. For you.”

Geralt blinked as the words registered. “Jask, no.” He shook his head. “Stop that.”

“That’s just—” Jaskier hiccupped. His eyes were swimming. “That’s such rotten luck. Geralt, there are other, better omegas for you—” He cut himself off, and then his eyes widened. If he’d been a cat, Geralt had the distinct impression that his ears would have flattened to his skull. “Oh, no.” Before Geralt could ask what was the matter, Jaskier was pushing at Geralt’s arm. Startled, Geralt released him; Jaskier scrambled until he was a couple feet away. He clutched at himself like he was either trying to keep his heart inside his ribs or tear it out entirely. “I _am_ sorry.”

 _That_ was an apology. Geralt could tell by the crushing guilt he could _hear_ in Jaskier’s voice.

Jaskier looked to Geralt with round eyes. “This is my fault.” His hands moved to his own neck, and he pressed his palms over his scent glands. “Fuck. I swear, I didn’t mean to—” His eyes darkened; his expression was growing panicky again. “Shit. This is my fault. Geralt, I’m an _omega_. I’m—” he swallowed, his knuckles white. “I’m a _fae_ omega, that’s got to be even _worse_. I—this is all my fault.”

Geralt frowned at him. “ _What’s_ your fault?”

“You being in love with me,” Jaskier said helplessly. “I—I never meant to make you—” He winced at the pressure he was putting on his own neck, but Geralt didn’t see his hands loosen. “But it’s my fault. I—oh my gods, and I kissed you, too… that must’ve—”

“Wait a minute.” Geralt crossed his arms. “Are you trying to tell me that you _tricked_ me into loving you?”

Jaskier quailed like he expected Geralt to hit him. “I—never on purpose.” He squeezed his eyes shut, a glass-clear drop sliding down his cheek. “But it’s in my blood, isn’t it? In my—in my nature.” He squeezed himself tighter. “This is what I was built to do.” He hiccupped. “Seduce some alpha so that they take care of me—”

“Stop.” Geralt didn’t hold all of the growl out of his voice. Immediately, Jaskier froze. Geralt pushed himself up to one knee.

Jaskier was still cringing as if he genuinely expected to be struck. “I’m sorry—”

“No.” Geralt kept his tone steady, but he knew that it was holding Jaskier in place. He didn’t think he’d ever spoken so forcefully to him before, but he needed Jaskier to listen to him. To do what he said, just long enough to break from this spiral of panic that was taking him away. “Please take your hands off of your neck.”

Shaking, Jaskier’s hands eased their grip. His eyes were wide and terrified as he reactively did as Geralt ordered. “G-Geralt?”

Once Jaskier was no pressing his scent glands into painful oblivion, Geralt inhaled sharply. “You did not,” he said firmly, “ _make_ me love you.” He hoped it didn’t sound too harsh, but he could not dampen his tone any more than he already had. Every word came out like a command, and he could see its effect on Jaskier; the omega’s pupils had dilated, and his body shivered faintly. “Is that clear?”

Jaskier’s lip trembled. “Yes.”

Geralt pressed himself to his feet, taking a deep breath. He didn’t want to scare Jaskier. That was not his intent. “Jask, what am I?”

Jaskier managed a whisper. “A… a witcher?”

Geralt nodded. “I am a _witcher_.” Without waiting for an answer, he took a step closer to Jaskier, doing his best to make sure it didn’t seem threatening. “Do you really think that I’d fall victim to something like that? Even if that _was_ your nature, even if you _were_ trying to manipulate me, do you really think it would have worked?”

He sank to a crouch in front of Jaskier.

“You can’t take this away from me,” he said quietly. “No amount of bullshit omega stereotype _made_ this happen. This is mine.” He held Jaskier’s eye contact without wavering. “I love you.”

Jaskier was staring at him; Geralt noticed the omega’s eyes darting back and forth between his own, distinctly hovering for longer on one side. Oh. Geralt had forgotten about the clawed cuts still drawing Jaskier’s eye, but it didn’t matter. That was a problem for later.

“Anyway,” he said, “I can guess who told you that alphas just can’t control themselves around an omega.” He shook his head, not for the first time mentally imagining the blood of every bastard who had ever touched Jaskier. “But it isn’t true. Sure, I have instincts. And you do, too. But instincts don’t justify taking what’s not given. And beyond that… instincts don’t create love.”

Jaskier looked skeptical, which made Geralt’s heart twist. “But how do you _know_ that?” 

Geralt paused, and then let out his breath. “I’ve been in love one other time,” Geralt said. “Just one. It wasn’t deep, but it was real.” He shifted from his crouch so that he was sitting properly on the floor again. “And she was an alpha.”

Jaskier blinked. “You were… in love with an alpha?” He looked perplexed. “But _you’re_ an alpha.”

Geralt nodded. “Her name was Yennefer.” He tucked his hair behind his ear. “And yes. We were both alphas. Trust me, there’s nothing _instinctive_ about that.”

“But it… didn’t work.”

With a short sigh, Geralt shook his head. “No. Didn’t. But it definitely happened.”

Jaskier looked absolutely stunned. “I hadn’t known that was possible.”

“It is.” He let out a breath. “My point is that, yes. You might instinctively seek safety with me. And I want to give you that. But that instinct has nothing to do with me _loving_ you. It might affect attraction, but it has nothing to do with anything deeper.”

Something about Jaskier’s carriage was changing. There was tension leaving his shoulders, and heavy exhaustion pouring into the chasms which the over-alert edge of panic had sliced into his bearing. He slumped forward, bracing himself on straight arms with his palms to the floor. His head sagged.

Geralt dared to reach out a hand. When it met Jaskier’s shoulder, the smaller man hung his head lower. “Fuck,” he murmured.

“Hmm.”

“You really…” Jaskier’s voice feathered away, and it seemed he had to expend effort to speak the words; his tone was flat. “You really love me.”

Geralt nodded.

A soft, shaky laugh slipped from Jaskier’s lips. It wasn’t like the manic, terrible laughter of before. This laugh was incredulous, exhausted beyond words, but _real_. “Wow.” He looked up. Those brilliant blue eyes were impossibly deep, and still damp from tears that still hadn’t entirely stopped coming. “What does that mean?”

At that, Geralt paused. Thinking back to the only other experience he had… well, being honest, his relationship with Yennefer had been predominantly carnal. He had no intention to ask anything like that of Jaskier. If the omega ever _wanted_ it, Geralt didn’t think he’d say no, but as far as love went, he knew it wasn’t predicated on that kind of desire. It was something else. Something that felt… bigger. So what _did_ it mean?

Jaskier laughed again, quietly. “You don’t know, do you?” When Geralt didn’t answer, Jaskier rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers. “Witcher,” Jaskier said, and _gods_ was it good to hear a trace of bone-tired humor in his voice, “you’re a mess, too.”

Geralt grunted. “Not usually.”

“So you’re a mess around _me_.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier chuckled again. He sounded so, so weary. “I’m sorry, Geralt.” He shook his head. “For… for spiraling like this.” He looked up, exhausted. “I really don’t _want_ this to be who I am.”

“You’re more than worst moments.” Geralt shifted out of his seat and began to press himself to his feet again, offering Jaskier his hand. “I promise. And there’s still nothing to be sorry for.”

“Can I apologize for clawing your face?” Jaskier took Geralt’s hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.

Geralt huffed softly. “You don’t need to. But if you must be sorry for _something_ , then I suppose.”

“I still want to treat it,” Jaskier said.

With one arm, Geralt drew Jaskier into his side. The omega was warm, and smelled of salty tears over his meadow-and-vanilla scent. “Tomorrow. In the morning. It isn’t bleeding anymore. It can wait.” He gave Jaskier a gentle squeeze. “Are you okay to go back to bed?”

Jaskier nodded minutely. “I might have more nightmares,” he warned.

“I wish I could protect you from your mind,” Geralt said quietly. “But I’ll be there if you wake up.”

Jaskier sighed. “Thank you, Geralt.” He leaned into Geralt’s chest. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sweet pancakes, that was hard to write! For some reason my buffer had a gap-- like, I had to write this chapter this week, but I have more buffer after it. Chaotic. Anyway! Next chapter will not be as angsty. Whew.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! As always, kudos and comments fuel my madness a bring me great joy. Peace, my darlings!


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm behind on comments againnnnnnnnnn but don't worry, I'll get to them! The all make me so happy.
> 
> There are no content warnings on this chapter.

There was a bird on the windowsill.

It was singing with a silvery, trilling warble, and for a long while, Jaskier heard it without hearing it; it melted into the feeling of the morning, suffusing through the room like the sunlight glowing red through his eyelids.

He was drifting nearer to waking. Becoming more aware of the birdsong, the sunlight. The heavy-feeling warmth of his own body. Remembering he had a mind.

Recognizing, with sleepy passivity, that his mind was oddly still.

It felt like the tranquility after a rainstorm. Wind that had blown itself out and moved on, rain that had swept the world clear, glittering. Clear pools in cobbled ditches, reflecting the pale and quiet sky, tired in the morning-after sunrise. The air was cool. Birdsong and gentle breathing complemented the silence.

He felt… calm.

The sheets of the bed were soft against his cheek, and his body was warm where it pressed against Geralt’s chest. He didn’t move. The moment was too quiet for movement, too gentle. Too untouched.

He felt… clean.

There was a lock of Geralt’s hair lying across Jaskier’s neck. It was silky and cool.

He opened his eyes slightly to find the room bathed in early sunlight. The bedsheets glowed softly white, and so did Geralt’s hair. Jaskier blinked slowly, waiting for the two golden spots in front of him to come into focus.

“Good morning,” Geralt rumbled softly. His voice was a rough, sleep-hoarse whisper.

Jaskier smiled faintly as the witcher’s eyes came into clarity. They held the light like honey, like amber, or warm liquor in a glass. Jaskier didn’t think there was a poet alive who could name the shade quite right. “G’morning,’ he whispered back. His own voice came out scratchy. Shifting an arm under the blankets, he gently brushed his fingertips over Geralt’s cheek. The lines of Jaskier’s claws were red against the witcher’s skin. He had felt guilty about that, in the darkness of the long, awful night. And maybe guilt would return, after this odd haze of tranquility had passed, and the next rainstorm drew nearer. But now… “You’re already healing.”

“Hmm.” Gently, Geralt took Jaskier’s hand where it touched his cheek. His eyes, not searching but softly watching, never left Jaskier’s. “How are you?”

There was meaning behind that question that Jaskier recognized. He knew that he had fallen to pieces the night before. He knew why. But somehow, it felt… alright. Perhaps something had changed. Perhaps, when he’d put himself back together again with Geralt’s patient help, another cracked and lopsided piece had slipped back into where it was meant to be. “I’m good,” he said honestly, and even the words alone made him smile. “I’m… good.”

The answering smile on Geralt’s face was enough to send sweet warmth blooming behind Jaskier’s breastbone. “Good.”

“How’s your face?” Jaskier said. He kept his voice quiet. It felt right.

“It’s fine,” Geralt said with another small smile.

“I’ll still help treat it,” Jaskier offered. With the hand that Geralt held, he gave the witcher’s palm a squeeze. “Right, this time.”

“Hmm.” Geralt closed his eyes slowly, and for the first time, Jaskier realized that the alpha actually looked sleepy. Not tired, not weary, but _sleepy_. As if he could sense the quiet contentment that Jaskier was so pleasantly surprised to find in his own chest, and the emotion was catching. He gently pressed Jaskier toward him, letting Jaskier fit himself against the shape of Geralt’s body.

Warmth dripped through Jaskier’s veins, making his fingertips tingle as he let his own eyes fall closed again. To his distant surprise, he felt a quiet purr start up low in his chest. That wasn’t a sound he could remember making before. Not in a very, very long time.

Geralt chuffed softly in sleepy response. One of his hands found the nape of Jaskier’s neck and began scratching gently, absently up Jaskier’s scalp. It sent wonderful, shimmering shivers down Jaskier’s spine, and he heard himself release a muffled _chirr_ of satisfaction.

“Jask,” Geralt murmured after a few minutes. His voice was heavy and almost languid. Jaskier had never heard him sound so… relaxed. But there was an edge of regret to his tone. “I have to leave today.”

Jaskier felt his purr stutter faintly. “Oh.” He frowned, burying his face deeper into Geralt’s neck. “For the contract?”

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed affirmatively. His fingers were still playing in Jaskier’s hair, tracing over his scalp. “I’ll come back as quickly as I can.”

The idea of breaking this moment was disappointing. Especially after such a horrible night, the peace was so perfect. The feeling of after-the-rain. “When will you go?” Jaskier mumbled into the crook of Geralt’s neck.

“Before noon,” Geralt answered quietly. And, predicting Jaskier’s next question, he went on after a moment’s pause. “I’ll be back in no more than a few days.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Jaskier murmured.

Geralt hummed. “Will you be alright?”

Jaskier did his best to suppress the unpleasant ripple of nerves that shuddered into his gut at the thought of Geralt walking out the door. He wanted to enjoy the morning while he had it. Let the peace stay. “I’ll be fine,” he said. He took a deep breath, letting Geralt’s scent wash over him, fill him with that sensation of safety. “I’ll be fine.”

***

Geralt was ready before the sun was at its peak.

He had let Jaskier dress the wound to his face, despite the fact that it truly was mostly healed. He had held Jaskier tightly, as if he could press the comfort of his presence into Jaskier’s body, more permanent than memory. He had pressed a kiss to the top of Clara Thistle’s curl-covered head, and once again patiently detached her fists from his hair. He had not-so-subtly left his nightshirt on the bed, as if by leaving something that held his scent, he was promising to return.

He had packed his bags. He had saddled Roach.

Jaskier stood by the door with Clara in his arms. She was fussing, as if aware that Geralt was about to go. “Please be safe,” Jaskier said quietly. He had fought his rising worry since he and Geralt had finally, reluctantly gotten out of bed so that Jaskier could feed Clara. It had built in his ribs, rippling the quiet of the morning. With Geralt standing in the doorway, the ripples felt like waves. “Promise me.”

“I promise I’ll come back,” Geralt said. He was wearing that black leather armor, just the way he had when Jaskier had first met him, and Jaskier was trying so, so hard not to see the symbolism. _He goes as he came. He brought my first happiness in years. He’ll take it with him._ Geralt reached out to gently tip up Jaskier’s chin. “I promise.”

“Please mean it,” Jaskier said. He held Clara a little more surely. “Please.”

“I mean it.” Geralt adjusted the strap that held his great swords to his back. “I wouldn’t leave you.” He took a breath, let it out. “There’s food for a week. I don’t think I’ll be gone that long, but it’s there. Okay?”

The words stuck in Jaskier’s throat, and all he could do was nod.

“Okay,” Geralt repeated, as if to himself.

He turned to go.

“Wait,” Jaskier managed. A hint of his nerves spilled into his voice, but he had no thought to spare for that; he stepped after Geralt, and as the witcher turned back around, Jaskier took hold of the front of his armor. He pulled himself up onto his toes, and then his lips met Geralt’s cheek.

He landed back on his heels, feeling the heat spread across his face as Geralt blinked at him. The witcher’s hand drifted up to touch the spot Jaskier had kissed.

“For luck,” Jaskier said, and he cracked a crooked smile, fidgeting.

Geralt’s hand didn’t leave his cheek, and Jaskier thought he saw a faint hint of blush.

Jaskier lifted Clara’s pudgy little hand, making her wave. She giggled. “Go, Geralt,” Jaskier said, before his shaky voice could betray him further. “Go slay a beast. Save a village.” He held Geralt’s eye contact. “Come back sound enough to tell me about it.”

Geralt nodded. There was something about him, standing in the shadow of the hallway. Dark, sharp, and deadly. From his blades to his black armor, to the hard lines of his shoulders… in that moment, Jaskier truly understood the rumors. Geralt was crafted to kill. And Jaskier could see it.

But there was only kindness in Geralt’s eyes. “I will.” He smiled, that half-smile that reached his eyes more than his lips. “I promise.”

And then the door was closed.

The room was empty.

And save for Clara, Jaskier was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A largely-peaceful chapter. Whew.
> 
> As ever, kudos and comments make me so unbelievably happy!


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